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THE 

FALLEN 

GOD 


JOSEPH   SPENCER 
KENNARD 


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THE  ^  *  ^  LEN  GOD:  AND  OTHER 
ESSA  .  .  ;N  LITERATURE  AND 
ART  :  BY  JOSEPH  SPENCER  KEN- 
NARD.  PUBLISHED  BY  GEORGE  W. 
JACOBS  AND  GOMP-\NY,  PHILA- 
DELPHIA      ANNO  DOMINI  MCMI 


ttqIuQ  s'onBaKI 

snjlS  )o  omouiE  Jdt  nl 


i^c^^o 


THE  FALLEN  GOD:  AND  OTHER 
ESSAYS  IN  LITERATURE  AND 
ART  :  BY  JOSEPH  SPENCER  KEN- 
NARD.  PUBLISHED  BY  GEORGE  W. 
JACOBS  AND  COMPANY,  PHILA- 
DELPHIA.      ANNO  DOMINI  MCMI 


Of  ^The  Fallen  God  "  twelve  hundred  copies 
have  been  printed  from  type,  of  which  this 
is 

No. lP.lf±... 


Copyright,  J90J 
by  George  W.  Jacobs  &  Co. 


Works  by  Joseph  Spencer  Kennard^  A«M*y  Ph»D.,  D.C.L. 

ENTRO  UN  CERCHIO  DI  FERRO 

(In  Italian).    A  study  in  psychology. 


CONTEMPORARY  ITALIAN  ROMANCE. 

A  study  of  one  hundred  years  of  Italian  fiction. 
(VoL  I  in  early  issue.) 


ALASKA  LEGENDS  AND  TOTEMS, 

as  reflecting  the  origin,  religion  and  customs  of 
Alaska  Indians. 


WHEN  THE  PRINTER'S  ART  WAS  YOUNG. 

Early  printers ;  early  colophons. 


THE  FRIAR  IN  FICTION. 

A  review  of  six  centuries  of  the  fictional  friar^ 
as  presented  by  the  great  writers  of  Europe. 
(Vol.  I  in  early  issue.) 


THE  FALLEN  GOD, 

and  other  essays  in  literature,  music  and  art. 


THE  FANFARA  OF  THE  BERSIGLIARY. 
And  other  stories  of  Italy. 


STUDI-DANTESCHI 

(In  Italian).  Studies  in  the  Divine  Comedy  of  Dante. 

MEMMO}  ONE  OF  THE  PEOPLE. 

A  novel  of  Italian  Socialism  and  of  tlie 
Florentine  bread  riots. 


PSYCHIC  POWER  IN  PREACHING 

by  J.  Spencer  Kennard,  D.D.     Edited,  with 
memoir  by  his  son,  Joseph  Spencer  Keimard* 


TABLE  OF  THE  CONTENTS. 

The  Fallen  God  pages      9 

Sincerity  in  Art  53 

Unity  in  Art  83 

Two  Fictional  Friars  \\\ 
Music  as  a  Sensuous  and  Spiritual  Pleasure    131 

Edmondo  de  Amicls  H7 

Niccola  Pisano  J  79 

Avignon  20  J 


■■f!**' 


Ab  Jatber, 

Comra&e  anD  ffrlenJ): 

Zo  Bour  memory  tbese  pages 

are  dedicated  bs 

Bour  0on 


THE  FALLEN  GOD 

How  art  thou  fallen  from  Heaven^ 

O  Day-Star  [Lucifer],  Son  of  the  Morning  1 

Yet  thou  shaft  be  brought  down  to  hell. 
To  the  uttermost  part  of  the  pit. 


wMwm; 


THE  FALLEN  GOD  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^^  ^ 

PART  THE  FIRST  ^  ^  <^  ^  ^  ^  ^\ 

HE  LEGEND  OF  THE 
FALLEN  GOD,— aI 
COMMON  CHARAC-J 
TER  IN  ALL  RE- 
CORDED MYTHS,  IS 
PROBABLY  BASED 
ON  THE  PHENOME- 
NON OF  THE  FALL- 
ING METEOR>HE- 
PHAESTOS,  THE 
ELEMENTAL  FIRE  GOD  OF  THE 
GREEKS,  WAS  HURLED  FROM  HEAVEN  ^ 
BY  HIS  FATHER,  ZEUS»>A  SIMILAR ''' 
STORY  CREPT  INTO  THE  CHRISTLVN  S 
MYTHOLOGY,  AND  THE  FATHERS  TO 
ACCOUNT  FOR  IT,  THOUGH  JUSTIFIED 
UNDOUBTEDLY  BY  THE  APOCALYPSE 
OF  ST.  JOHN  THE  DIVINE,  TWISTED 
A  TEXT  OF  THE  HEBREW  PROPHET 
TO  THEIR  REQUIRED  MEANING.  >  THE 
STORY  DOES  NOT  SEEM  TO  HAVE 
TAKEN  SO  STRONG  A  HOLD  UPON  THE 
LATIN  PEOPLES  AND  UPON  THE  BLUE- 
EYED  CHILDREN  OF  THE  NORTHERN 
WILDS,— PERHAPS  BECAUSE  THE  PHE- 
NOMENON UPON  WHICH  IT  WAS 
BASED  WAS  ACCOUNTED  FOR  BY  THE 

■PR 


Zbc  ^fallen  pagan  myth  that  was  never  thoroughly  eradicated 
*  from  the  imagination  of  the  common  people^  In 
England,  years  before  the  Restoration,  there  was  a 
mystery  played  at  Chester  which  enacted  the  fall  of 
Lucifer.  For  Piers  Plowman  he  is  as  real  as  the 
lordly  bishops  whom  he  typifies.  In  a  deep  dale 
this  symbolist  saw  a  dungeon,  called  the  Castle  of 
Care* 

**  Therein  woneth  a  wigfht,  that  wrong:  is  i-hote 
Fader  of  falsness,  he  founded  it  himselven, 
Adam  and  Eve  he  egfged  to  do  ill 
Counseilede  Cayne  to  cullen  his  brother 
Judas  he  japede,  with  the  jewes  silver — 


He  was  an  archangel  of  hevene,  on  of  Godes  knights 

He  was  loveliest  of  sight,  after  our  Lord, 

Till  he  brake  buxomness  thorow  boast  of  himself 

Then  fell  he  with  his  felawes,  and  fendes  becomen. 

Out  of  heaven  into  hell  hobleden  fast 

Summe  in  the  eir,  summe  in  the  earth  and  summe 

in  hell  deepe 
But  Lucifer  lowest,  ligeth  of  them  all. 

Here,  however,  Lucifer  and  Satan  are  not  blended, 
though  they  are  thoroughly  in  agreement.  Satan 
even  flatters  Lucifer  with  the  clever  way  in  which — 

Nat  in  forme  of  a  feonde,  but  in  form  of  an  adre 
he  enticed  Eve  to  eat  of  the  forbidden  tree.    For  it  is 
Lucifer  who  is  wily.    Satan  is  the  strong  one.    He 
is  the  spirit  who  urges  war,  the  barring  of  the  gates, 
and — a  strange  light  upon  Milton,  whom  we  know 


12 


was  wdl  acquainted  with  the  greatest  middle  Eng-  ^"^  fallen 
lish  satire — eggs  on  Astrot  to  manufacture  gun- 
powder and  cannon  to  lette  the  Lord  of  light, 

Efc  we  thorow  brightness  be  blent. 
But  the  dukes  of  the  dim-place  must  needs  give  way, 
and  Piers  Plowman  also  tells  us  of  that  rescue  of 
the  Patriarchs  from  hell  which  forms  a  convincing 
episode  of  the  fourth  canto  of  the  Inferno. 

This  catholic  tradition  was  overwhelmed  by 
the  new  heaven  and  earth  created  for  English  litera- 
ture by  the  pagan  dramatists  of  the  Elizabethan 
renaissance.  The  Christian  Devil  and  his  attendant 
Vice  found  little  consideration  at  the  hands  of  Shaks- 
peare  and  his  brethren.  Marlowe,  the  self-acknow- 
ledged scoffer,  used  him,  it  is  true, — ^but  he  never 
troubled  to  analyze  him,  or  to  embody  him  in  any 
horrible  personification.  Mephistopheles  is  the  sym- 
bolization  of  German  scholarly  scepticism;  and  it 
is  not  strange  that  the  whole  German  literature,  bom 
of  the  Elizabethan  drama,  offers  no  deep  analysis 
of  spiritual  good  and  evil.  Even  Goethe,  original 
and  vast  as  he  undoubtedly  is,  clung  very  closely  to 
the  mocking  MarIowe,and  his  intellect  is  so  untouched 
by  the  fiery  zeal  which  burns  in  the  soul  of  Aeschylus, 
Milton  and  Dante,  that  it  is  not  irksome  to  him  to 
introduce  the  Author  of  all  evil  in  a  jesting  colloquy 
with  the  Spring  of  all  good.  With  the  Elizabethan 
both  the   Hebrew    and    the    classical    myths    are 

13 


obliterated;  and  though  Achilles,  Hector  and  the 
Hellenic  gods  and  goddesses  gleam  through  double 
translations,  their  features  are  blurred,  their  char- 
acters modernized,  and  but  for  their  names,  so 
Englished  as  to  be  almost  beyond  recognition. 

Under  this  mountain,  from  three  convergent 
sources  flowed  the  stream  by  which  sat  the  muse  of 
Milton*  The  religious  continent  of  the  imaginings 
of  the  poet  of  Paradise  Lost  was,  however,  no 
longer  catholic.  It  was  localized.  It  was  puritan. 
It  was  untouched,  unsoiled,  by  the  grosser  devil 
which  in  the  medieval  mysteries  ran  howling  about 
the  mouth  of  hell*  With  him  the  Jehovah  of  the 
Hebrews  became  the  All-father ;  the  Devil  of  the 
medieval  mysteries  an  evil  power  of  the  first  magni- 
tude, while  the  gods  and  goddesses  of  Greece  and 
Rome  were  allowed  no  higher  sphere  than  that  of 
attendant  spirits  to  the  supreme  ill.  But  Milton's 
Satan  is  not  the  Qiristian  Lucifer,  Shelley  says  of 
him  with  perfect  truth  :  *  This  character  engenders 
in  the  mind  a  pernicious  casuistry  which  leads  us  to 
weigh  his  faults  with  his  wrongs  and  excuse  the 
former  because  the  latter  exceed  all  measure.'  In 
other  words,  the  sympathy  of  the  reader  is  with 
Satan.  He  is  very  human,  not  at  all  horrific.  The 
sublime  pageantry  which  surrounds  him  only  adds 
zest  to  the  pity  for  his  magnificent  sufferings.  How 
inexpressibly  human  and  touching  is  the  passage. 


To  speak       ^be  jfallen 
Thrice  he  assayed,  and  thtice,  in  spite  of  scorn,  ®°^* 

Tears  soch  as  angels  weep  burst  forth. 

Compare  these  tears  with  those  of  Lucifer  in  the  last 
canto  of  the  Inferno — 

"With  six  eyes  did  he  weep  and  down  three  chins 
Trickled  the  tear-drops  and  the  bloody  drivel* 

Is  it  possible  that  these  two  beings  are  the  same  or 
akin  ?    The  answer  would  seem  to  be, 

My  Master  pleased  to  show  me 
The  creature  who  once  had  the  beauteous  semblance ; 

and  shortly  afterwards 

Were  he  as  fair  once  as  he  now  is  foul 
And  lifted  up  his  brow  against  his  Maker. 

Here  Dante  gives  us  two  distinct  references  to 
the  legend  upon  which  the  great  spirit  of  the  Para- 
dise Lost  is  built.  But  the  second  reference  is  uttered 
as  an  hypothesis — there  is  almost  a  doubt  of  the 
truth — ^for  though  Milton's  soul  has  taken  hold  of 
the  tradition,  has  cast  out  the  coarser  features  and 
beautified  the  whole,  the  fire  of  his  imagination  trans- 
muting it ;  yet  Dante's  genius  working  in  the  same 
way  has  produced  a  heavier  metal.  The  starting 
place  of  both  poets  is  the  earth.  Milton's  soul  in 
the  Paradise  Lost  rises  and  finds  Satan  next  to  God. 
Dante's  genius  goes  down  into  the  bowels  of  the 
earth  and  in  the  uttermost  abyss  discovers — ^Dis. 

15 


Zbe  jfauen  'J'^g  consideration  of  a  more  modern  poet  may 

*  perhaps  help  us  to  understand  the  action  of  the 
imaginative  fire  of  a  great  poet's  intellect.  It  is 
commonly  considered  as  creative*  It  is  not  so.  The 
imagination  of  the  multitude  creates.  The  intellect 
of  the  poet  transmutes.  Such  an  imagination  was 
Shelley's.  His  mind  was  instinct  with  the  legends 
of  the  Trojan  Epos,  his  spirit  was  fed  on  the  heroic 
and  dramatic  poetry  of  Greece  and  Rome.  To  his 
imagination  there  were  no  bounds  set  by  the  supreme 
sanction  of  religion,  though  he  was  in  another  sense 
supremely  religious.  Such  a  soul,  if  it  worked  like 
Milton's,  upward,  should  transmute  devils  into  gods ; 
if  its  action  was  like  Dante's,  downward,  it  should 
deify  some  influence,  perhaps  some  element. 

Now  in  the  Prometheus  Unbound,  Shelley  bor- 
rows the  machinery  of  Aeschylus.  He  transfers  the 
Apollo  wholly  from  the  Greek  to  the  English  almost 
without  change.  His  furies,  however,  are  more  ele- 
mental than  those  of  Aeschylus.  There  is  no  sugges- 
tion of  their  conversion  into  Eumenides.  Prome- 
theus here  is  God  suffering  for  man;  Jupiter  is  the 
essence  of  Evil, — and  behind  the  whole  broods  the 
shade  of  the  Demogorgon — which  reminds  us  very 
strongly  of  the  Fata  of  Dante's  master,  Virgil. 

Religion  may  be  called  the  continent  of  imagin- 
ings. It  was  religion  which  bound  Milton  to  the 
Jehovah  of  the  Hebrews.    The  religious  awe  in  the 

16 


soul  of  Aeschylus  led  him  to  make  Apollo  a  mere  ^^^  fallen 
regulator  of  the  furies,  and  eventually  in  the  Eu- 
menides,  forced  him  to  convert  even  them  into  bene- 
factors of  the  race  they  had  tormented.  He,  too, 
undertook  the  unthankful  task  which  Milton  pro- 
posed to  himself — 

To  assert  eternal  Providence, 

And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men. 

The  failure  or  success  of  both  we  discuss  later. 
Shelley  proposes  to  himself  no  such  labor.    In  his 
first  drama — or  goat  song,  as  he  calls  it,  so  emulative 
of  the  Hellenic  spirit  is  he — the  religious  continent 
I  of  his  imaginings  is  his  worship  of  the  great  litera- 
ture and  genius  of  the  Hellenic  peoples.     He  does 
not  wander  essentially  from  the  example  set  him  by 
Aeschylus.   In  the  Christian  mythology,  however,  his 
spirit  has  no  confining  limits.     It  is,  perhaps,  unfor- 
[tunate  that  when  he  treats  of  the  Christian  Deity 
\  and  his  antagonist  Lucifer,  he  forsakes  the  drama 
for  the  Spencerian  stanza  and  canto.     But  he  says 
enough  for  our  purpose — 

Two  Powers  o'er  mortal  things  dominion  hold 
Ruling  the  world  with  a  divided  lot, 
Immortal,  all-pervading,  manifold. 
Twin  Genii,  equal  Gods, — 

O'er  the  wide  wild  abyss  two  meteors  shone, 
A  blood-red  Comet  and  the  Morning  Star 
l^lingling  their  beams  in  combat — as  he  stood, 

J7 


Zbe  jf  alien  AU  thougfhts  within  his  mind  waged  mutual  war, 

•  In  dreadful  sympathy — when  to  the  flood 

That  fair  Star  fell,  he  turned  and  shed  Iiis  brother's  blood. 

Thus  evil  triumphed,  and  the  Spirit  of  evil. 

One  Power  of  many  shapes  which  none  may  know. 

One  Shape  of  many  names ;  the  Fiend  did  revel 

In  victory,  reigningf  o'er  a  world  of  woe, 

For  the  new  race  of  man  went  to  and  fro, 

Famished  and  homeless,  loathed  and  loathingf,  wild, 

Hatingf  good — for  his  immortal  foe. 

He  changed  from  starry  shape,  beauteous  and  mild. 

To  a  dire  Snake,  with  man  and  beast  unreconciled. 

And^thc  great  Spirit  of  Good  did  creep  among 
The  nations  of  mankind,  and  every  tongue 
Cursed,  and  blasphemed  him  as  he  passed ;  for  none 
Knew  good  from  evil,  though  their  names  were  hung 
In  mockery  o'er  the  fane  where  many  a  groan. 
As  King,  and  Lord,  and  God,  the  conquering  Fiend  did 
own. 

As  Shelley  has  taken  this  transmuted  Lucifer 
from  Milton's  Satan ;  deified  him  a  little  more ;  as 
he  has  borrowed  the  gods  and  furies  of  the  Prome- 
theus Unbound  only  slightly  changed  from  the  stage 
of  Aeschylus,  so  Aeschylus  himself  has  borrowed  his 
gods  and  goddesses  from  the  Heaven,  Earth  and  the 
Shades  of  Homer.  But  though  these  in  the  Iliad 
and  Odyssey  have  passed  through  the  transmuting 
fire  of  Homer's  imagination,  they  have  not  there 
emerged  thoroughly  purified.  Not  only  are  they 
anthropomorphic, — ^not  more  or  less  than  deified 


men, — ^but  their  original,  elemental  character  con-  ^^^  fallen 

tinually  appears,    Zeus,  the  All-father,  is  still  the 

sky,  Neptune  has  no  being  apart  from  the  ocean ; 

while  Hephaestos,  as  we  have  seen,  was  cast  out  of 

heaven  by  his  father,  Zeus,  and  as  the  god  of  fire, 

has  become  a  good-natured,harmIess  fellow,  the  friend 

of  man  and  the  prototype  of  the  Prometheus. 

Not  only  is  this  so,  but  the  most  solitary  and 
grandest  figure  in  the  literature  of  Ancient  Greece 
calls  attention  to  it,  emphasizes  it,  and  is  so  fiercely 
indignant  of  it,  that  we  feel  this  very  indignation 
responsible  for  much  of  the  grandeur  of  his  creation. 
There  has  been  faction  and  betrayal  among  the 
gods.  A  new  dynasty  has  seized  on  Olympus. 
Zeus,  the  All-father,  even  he  had  a  father,  who  is 
now — where?  And  a  son  shall  come  to  him,  as 
Aeschylus  knows.  And  yet  cry  the  Erinyes,  *  My 
ancient  honours  remain  to  me — though  possessing  a 
station  beneath  the  earth  and  sunless  darkness/ ' 

Even  Mercury,  the  courier  of  Jove,  is  a  mere 
menial,  to  Prometheus  and  Aeschylus — ^the  overseer 
of  the  tyrant. 

aXX'  etcropS  yap  TOvSe  tov  Aios  rpo^tv,^ 

TOV  TOV   TVpdwOV  TOV  V€OV  SmKOVOV 

But  yonder  I  behold  the  scout  of  Zeus, 
Of  this  new  potentate  the  servitor  ; 

And  the  Erinyes  themselves  despise  him  with 

I  Eumenides,  371-374,  2  Proonetheui,  962-963. 

J9 


TEbc  fallen  all  the  rancour  of  aged  servants  overlorded  by  a 
young  parvenu. 

cTTCt  KadTTTrd^ei  fie  irpeafivTiv  v«os" 

Since  young  you  ride  down  me  in  years* 

The  creator  of  all  these  gods  was  the  brooding 
imagination  of  prehistoric  man.  Such  deities  were 
born  of  the  wind  and  the  sea,  in  the  sky  and  the 
clouds,  in  the  storm,  and  in  the  memory  of  inunda- 
tion and  cataclysm.  Thus,  the  primitive  intellect, 
with  its  tendency  to  personification,  knows  one  of  the 
impulses  as  Ormuzd,  the  other  as  Ahriman.  The 
Greek  intellect,  thrown  upon  itself,  takes  refuge  in 
the  conception  of  Moira,  ruling  even  the  gods,  a 
hybrid  of  good  and  its  opposite* 

When  we  say  that  the  Greek  intellect  personi- 
fied the  forces  of  nature  and  worshiped  personifica- 
tions as  gods,  we  state  absolute  truth*  But  few 
things  are  so  misleading  as  absolute  truth*  The 
Greek  thinker  became  intelligible  to  himself  and  to 
others  only  in  so  far  as  he  availed  himself  of  the 
prevailing  mode  of  thought*  Otherwise,  he  was 
unintelligible*  Whatever  his  private  opinion  may 
have  been  on  the  subject  of  the  myths  and  the  cos- 
mogonies, he  found  them  a  convenient  basis  of 
thought.  Hence  we  see  the  physical  experience  and 
the  intellectual  experience  of  the  Greeks  accumulat- 
ing in  harmony  for  centuries,  with  no  peril  to  the 
state  religion.     The  multitude  could  have  dwelt  in 

20 


their  world  and  the  philosophers  could  have  ^^^  fnilcn 
dwelt  in  their  world  forever  without  the  develop- 
ment of  conflict,  but  for  one  circumstance.  That 
circumstance  was  the  accumulation  of  spiritual 
experience*  Of  spiritual  experience,  in  our  sense, 
the  Greeks  were,  of  course,  destitute,  but  that  they 
were  vouchsafed  a  quality  of  it,  we  can  detect  almost 
as  far  back  as  Homen    It  culminated  in  Socrates, 

This  spiritual  experience,  such  as  it  was,  lagged 
far  behind  the  physical  experience,  and  farther  still 
behind  the  intellectuaL  Aeschylus  struggled  with  it, 
but  the  Greek  mode  of  thought  was  inadequate  to 
its  expression.  He  made  himself  intelligible  to  his 
contemporaries,  but  the  audiences  for  whom  Eurip- 
ides wrote  would  have  found  the  Prometheus 
Vinctus  a  riddle.  This  seems  to  be  the  clue  to  the 
obscurity  of  Aeschylus.  He  is  conscious  of  a 
mighty  force  at  work,  destined  one  day  to  hurl  the 
gods  from  their  thrones.  But  he  has  *  that  within 
which  passeth  show,'  and  he  cannot  render  intel- 
ligible the  message  whose  purport  fills  him  with 
gloom.  The  Greeks  gazed  in  awe,  and  we  may 
conjecture  that  they  felt  uncomfortable.  Certainly 
they  took  refuge  in  a  more  congenial  atmos- 
phere. Aeschylus  became  the  theologian  of  antiquity, 
and  Euripides  became  the  successful  playwright. 

At  first,  as  we  have  said,  these  gods  were  only 
personified  elements  ;  but  passed  through  the  minds 

21 


Zbc  ffailcH  of  the  priestly  poets,  Homer,  Hesiod,  Aeschylus,  and 
'  among  the  Latins,  Virgil,  who  appear  as  the  record- 
ing memories  of  past  times,  they  become  gods  like 
men,  and  then  men  like  gods.  Meanwhile,  the  demand 
from  below  for  the  mere  elemental  gods  must  be 
satisfied :  the  gods  of  tempestual  destruction,  the  gods 
of  the  trouble  of  the  souL  Of  this  demand  are  born 
Harpies,  the  Erinyes  of  Aeschylus,  the  Fates  of 
Virgil,  the  Furies  of  Shelley — perhaps  even  the 
Hounds  of  Hell,  which  in  the  Paradise  Lost  are  the 
incestuous  offspring  of  Sin  and  Death. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  follow  to  his  elemental 
origin  the  Mercury  whom  we  find  regulating  the 
Furies  in  the  Prometheus  Unbound  of  Shelley. 
Unfortunately,  concerning  him  there  is  much  mys- 
tery. It  is  certain  that  he  is  the  Apollo  of  Aeschylus, 
who  is  the  Phoibos  Apollo  of  Homer*  But  even 
the  name  has  given  rise  to  discussion  as  to  its  origin. 
It  is  interesting,  however,  to  note  here  that  the  Puri- 
tan, John  Bunyan,  uses  the  word  in  the  sense  of 
destroyer.  ApoUyon  is  the  name  of  his  great 
adversary.  This  should  assure  us  that  the  dimmed 
glory  of  Milton^s  fallen  archangel  borrows  some  of 
its  light  from  the  winged  messenger  of  the  older 
gods,  who  yet  to  Aeschylus  are  parvenus.  Though 
he  has  lost  the  bond  which  bound  him  to  the  ele- 
ment, it  is  at  least  probable  that  in  the  prehomeric 
days  he  was  the  personification  of  the  pestilence,  the 

22 


desert,  or  the  storm — a  horrible  vision  startling  the  ^^^  fallen 
minds  of  men«  He  is  always  the  Minister  of  Ven- 
geance. Wolves  followed  him.  He  carries  in  his 
hand  the  arrows  of  destruction;  and  even  in  the 
Iliad,  Achilles  still  calls  him  *  the  most  pernicious  of 
all  the  gods/ 

The  Erinyes  of  Aeschylus  are  the  ministers  of 
blood  vengeance.  The  black  Night  is  their  mother. 
Their  office,  given  perfect  from  the  gods,  is  to  track 
forever  the  steps  of  the  murderer  of  his  fellow,  to 
suck  the  blood  from  his  limbs,  to  bear  him  alive 
below.  In  their  station  beneath  the  earth  in  sunless 
darkness  they  are  called  Evils.  And  what  form  are 
they  given  ?  Old  women  ?  No.  Gorgon  ?  No. 
They  are  wingless  to  behold,  black  and  altogether 
abominable ;  out  of  their  eyes  they  distill  a  horrible 
rheum.  And  their  dress  is  not  worthy  to  be  worn 
either  at  the  shrines  of  the  gods  or  in  the  dwellings 
of  men.'  Awful  these,  indeed,  and  yet,  these  have 
an  office  not  easily  set  aside.  These  retain  their 
ancient  honours,  though  possessing  a  station  beneath 
the  earth  in  sunless  darkness. 

The  religious  sanction  which  bounded  the  im- 
aginations of  Aeschylus  and  Milton  to  endeavor  to 
justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men, — that  rule  of  the 
Anarch,  Custom,  through  which  Shelley  breaks 
with  such  startling  cries, — lays  heavier  upon  Dante 

,         I  Eumenides,  48-6 1 .  . 

23 


Zbc  iPaiien  than  on  all.  With  him,  however,  there  is  no  attempt 
*  at  justification.  It  it  sufficient  for  him  that  these 
things  are  so.  He  is  catholic.  The  continent  of 
his  imaginings  has  no  leak ;  the  walls  are  thin  only 
where  he  lightly  touches  upon  the  fabled  deities  and 
false  of  his  master,  Virgil. 

Dante  is  too  much  of  a  Latin,  too  much  a 
Roman,  to  relegate,  as  Milton  does,  the  whole  family 
of  the  pagan  gods  to  the  nethermost  abyss.  The 
rigid  faith  in  him  forces  him  downward ;  his  leader 
is  the  great  Roman  poet ;  and  if  for  no  other  reason 
than  this,  he  must  leave  the  false  Olympians  behind 
him.  Yet  there  is  no  doubt  that  because  of  this 
lightness  of  touch  he  feels  the  rigor  of  the  religious 
bond  much  tighter.  The  fact  that  the  gods  of  Virgil 
are  false,  makes  him  so  much  the  more  merciless  in 
his  dealing  with  the  damned,  and  adds  another  circle 
to  the  infernal  realm. 

The  last  canto  of  the  Inferno  is  a  climax  to  a 
gradual  procession  downward.  In  this  descent,  how- 
ever, the  genius  of  Dante  has  worked  on  the  same 
principle  as  we  have  seen  that  of  Aeschylus  work- 
ing, that  of  Milton,  that  of  Shelley.  But  the  order 
is  reversed.  In  this  poem  we  find  the  infernal 
deities  of  Greece  and  Rome — Minos,  Plutos,  the 
Furies,  the  Minotaur  and  the  Harpies — ruling  dif- 
ferent circles  of  the  shades.  When  the  eighth  circle 
is  reached,  the  mansion  in  Hell  called  Malebolge, 

24 


the  list  of  the  infernal  deities  is  exhausted.  This  ^"^  Ifaiien 
place  is  so  awful  that  in  all  the  poet^s  wide  reading 
there  is  no  devil  damned  black  enough  to  rule. 
Before  the  ninth  circle  is  passed,  however,  we  meet 
the  giants,  Nimrod,  Ephialtes  and  Anteus,  titanic 
men,  whose  names  appear  on  the  dim  horizon  of 
history.  The  transmuting  fire  of  the  poet^s  imag- 
ination begins  to  work.  Nimrod  was  a  mighty 
hunter  before  the  Lord,  sprung  from  the  knowledge 
or  creative  imagination  of  the  Hebrews.  He  was 
responsible  and  is  punished  for  the  tower  of  Babel, 
and  the  division  of  human  speech  ere  the  continents 
were  subdivided. 

Ephialtes  was  the  Hellenic  child  of  the  earth. 
These  and  Briareus  stand  at  the  boundary  of  the 
eighth  circle  and  the  ninth.  In  Hell  they  are  the 
landmarks  between  the  speakable  and  the  unspeak- 
able, as  in  time  they  divided  the  recorded  from  that 
which  has  not  been  written. 

For  we  are  not  at  the  bottom  yet.  There  is 
yet  to  be  seen 

the  abyss  which  swallows  up 

Judas  and  Lucifer. 

In  this  lowest  region  of  all,  whence  then  can  Dante 
derive  his  imagery?  On  what  material  will  the 
transmuting  fire,  the  demiurgic  genius  of  the  poet 
work  ?  The  most  fearful  descriptions  in  the  Aeneid 
are  of  Charon : 

25 


Hbe  ^fallen  Portitor  has  horrcndus  aquas  et  flumina  servat 

0oD.  Terribili  squalor e  Charon ;  cui  plurima  mento 

Canities  inculta  jacet^  stant  lumina  flamma 
Sordidus  ex  humcris  nodo  dependet  amictus ; 

—<AeneidVI,298. 

A  gfrim  ferryman  gfuards   [servat]   these  floods  and 

rivers, 
Charon  of  frightful  slovenliness ;  on  whose  chin  a  load 

of  hair  neglected  sprouts. 
His  eyes  flame.    His  vestment  filthy  hangs  from  his 

shoulders  by  a  knot. 

And  of 

Cerberus  haec  ingens,  latratu  regna  trifauci 
Personat  adverso  recubans  immanis  in  antro. 

And  of  immense 

Cerberus  [who]  with  three-throated  bark  makes  this 
kingdom  to  resound — stretched  enormously  along  the 
cave. 

Cui  vates,  horrere  videns  jam  colla  colubris. 

To  whom  when  the  priestess  saw  his  neck  to  bristle 
with  horrid  snakes. 

Deeper  horrors  are  not  described,  and  the  Latin 

*  poet  confesses  like  the  Greek  dramatist  his  inability ; 

'  and  dedicates  in  these  lines  the  further  work,  the 

further  labor,  to  one  who  should  come  after  him,  one 

mightier  than  he : 

Non  mihi  si  linguae  centum  sint  oraque  centum, 
Ferrea  vox,  omnes  scelerum  comprendere  formas. 
Omnia  poenarum  percurrere  nomina  possim. 
"Were  there  to  me  a  hundred  tongues,  a  hundred!  mouths, 
A  voice  of  iron,  it  were  not  possible  to  me  to  comprehend 
all  their  crimes,  or  to  enumerate  all  their  punishments. 


So  he  can  no  longer  borrow  from  his  teacher,  ^^^  f  aHe» 
Virgil.     As  deep  as  this  the  older  poet  never  ven- 
tured.   This  terrible  vision  cannot  therefore  be  seen 
through  Virgil. 

He  [Virgfil]  from  before  me  moved  and  ma.de  me  stay, 
Saying :  Behold  Dis  and  behold  the  place 
Where  thou  with  fortitude  must  arm  thyself. 

We  have  learned  how  the  woIf-Ieading,  man- 
destroying  personification  of  the  pestilence  became  in 
Homer,  Phoibos  Apollo;  how  this  light-bearing 
god  became  the  regulator  of  the  ministers  of  ven- 
geance in  the  Eumenides;  how  Milton^s  Satan 
borrows  some  of  his  light  from  that  same  Apollo, 
and  finally,  how  the  demiurgic  fire  of  Shelley's 
imagination  makes  of  this  Satan  the  benefactor  of 
man  and  the  light  of  the  world.  By  a  similar  pro- 
cess working  in  the  inverse  order,  the  genius  of 
Dante  has  produced  the  morning-star,  Lucifer,  the 
creature  who  had  once  the  beauteous  semblance. 

The  materials  were  ready  at  his  hand, — he  was 
born  among  them;  they  were  of  him  and  he  of 
them.  The  very  name  gives  us  the  cue :  Dis,  that 
is  Dives,  riches,  Plutus,  OrcusI  In  Romanesque 
folklore  Orcus,  is  a  black,  hairy,  man-eating  mon- 
ster. In  the  Old  Testament,  the  Hebrew  word  sa-iff 
translated  *  devils,*  is  literally  *  hairy-ones/  The 
Etruscan  god  of  Death  was  a  savage  old  man  with 
wings  and  a  hammer. 

27 


^^^  '0^5"  ^^  ^^^  ^^'^^^  describes  him  in  the  thirty- 

*  fourth  canto : 

Underneath  each  came  forth  two  migfhty  wingfs 
Such  as  befitting:  were  so  great  a  bird ; 

And  later : 

At  every  mouth  he  with  his  teeth  was  crunching 
A  siimer  in  the  manner  of  a  brake ; 

And  later  still : 

And  when  the  wings  were  open  wide  apart^ 
He  laid  fast  hold  upon  the  shaggy  sides* 

The  hugeness  and  horror  are  lost  in  quotation.  But 

what  of  it  ?    The  worst  of  it  is  indescribable. 

How  frozen  I  became  and  powerless,  then. 
Ask  it  not,  reader,  for  I  cannot  write  it. 
Because  all  language  would  be  insufficient* 

The  whole  canto  is  of  hint ;  the  imagination  of  the 

reader  is  left  to  do  the  rest.    It  is  a  climax.    As 

Virgil  steps  aside  and  says  to  Dante : 

Ecco  Dite ! 

So  Dante  moves  out  of  the  way  and  says  to  the 

reader  * 

Behold  the  King  of  HeU! 

Pausanius,  a  Graeco-Roman  writer  of  the  sec- 
ond century,  with  whose  Descriptio  Graeciae  Dante 
was  j  probably  well  acquainted — in  his  third  book 
describes  at  length  the  gods  and  sacrifices  of  the 
ancient  Achaeans.  In  one  place  they  sacrifice  *  in  a 
manner  that  may  not  be  spoken*'  In  another,  he 
saw  the  images  of  gods,  which  he  regarded  as  the 

28 


oldest  deities  of  Greece.    One  was  the  three-eyed  ^^^  fallen 

Zeus,  and  another  the  three-headed  Artemis.    And 

so  Dante — 

Oh,  what  a  marvel  it  appeared  to  me 
When  I  beheld  three  faces  on  his  head  I 

Let  US  note  here  a  fact  heretofore  we  believe 
unnoted — ^that  Dante  is  fully  conscious  of  the  utter 
degeneracy  of  the  language  he  uses.  He  knows, 
[and  none  better  than  he,  that  a  people  is  as  its  speech 
is.  For  this  reason  he  chooses  Virgil  as  his  master; 
Virgil,  whose  epic  epitomises  the  glory  of  the  coun- 
try and  times  of  Dante*s  forefathers.  For  this  reason 
he  has  chosen  to  write  in  the  tongue  of  his  time, 
conscious  that  the  day  of  the  Latin  is  passed,  and  that 
the  new  Roman  must  speak  a  new  Latin.  Hence 
comes  the  cry  with  which  he  enters  the  city  of  Dis  : 
S*  io  avessi  le  rime  ed  aspre  e  chiocce, 

Ne  da  Iingfua  che  chiami  mamma  e  bahbo.' 
It  is  not  a  child^s  tongue  that  can  describe  the 
foundation  of  the  universe.  It  is  not  a  language 
about  to  be  born  from  the  putrefaction  of  the  imperial 
tongue  of  Rome  that  he  would  choose  were  the 
choice  his.  Upon  what  times  was  he  fallen  for  such  a 
song  I  One  epithet  of  Greek,  one  old  Roman  adjective, 
would  express  what  his  Italian  brethren  coined  a  line 
to  carry.  In  these  days  the  very  word  horrendus  has 
lost  its  bristling  meaning,  and  even  Virgil  ascribes 
it  indifferently  to  Charon  and  to  the  serpent-hairy 
neck  of  Cerberus. 

I  See  Inf.  c.  32,  U.  J -9. 

29 


THE  FALLEN  GOD 

PART  THE  SECOND 


LUQFER  IN  DANTE^S  INFERNO 

Tis  ovv  'AvayKi/s  co-Tiv  olaKocrrp6<l}os ; 
Moipai  Tpifwp<f>oi.  p.\rqfu)vi.%  r    'Eptvues. 

— PrometheuSf  523,  524, 
Who  then  is  hehnsman  of  Necessity? 
The  triform  Fates  and  the  remembering  Furies. 


N  connection  with  this  horrible  vision  ^.ucffer  in 
of  Dis  it  would  be  interesting  to  consider 
the  fearful  triform  god  of  the  Hindoos 
and  other  Asiatic  peoples.  But  we  have 
here  only  time  to  hint  at  it.  The  grov- 
elling imagination  of  degenerate  multi- 
tudes has  carved  the  eidolon  of  Brahma, 
Vishnu  and  Siva  from  the  legends  and 
fables  of  their  Buddhist  priests.  But 
Buddhism  stands  in  the  same  relation  to 
the  original  Brahmanism,  as  Italian  stands 
to  Latin,  or  Protestantism  to  Catholicism; 
and  the  basis  of  Brahmanism,  its  sacred 
literature,  is  the  Veda,  And  what  of  the 
Veda  ?  It  is  a  collection  of  hymns  older 
than  the  oldest  Greek,  older  than  Sans- 
crit ;  it  is  the  fountain-head  of  the  litera- 
ture of  the  Aryan  peoples.  Here  Zeus 
the  All-father,  in  Latin  Jupiter,  is  Dyans ; 
the  all-embracing  god  of  light  is  Varuna, 
the  Greek  oo-pavo's,  and  related  to  him 
Mitra,  the  bright  sun  of  day.  Another 
name  for  the  same  conception  is  Aditi,  the 
infinite.  His  opposite  is  Diti,  the  bound, 
of  whom  there  is  no  conception  except 
the  personification  of  Night  —  decay, 
destruction  and  death;  signifying  also  the  place  of 
destruction — Nir-riti,  the  Abyss  and  the  Mother  of 

33 


JLbc  fallen  Hell.'  Was  it  for  these  deities  that  the  soul  of  Acs- 
*  chylus  hungered  when  he  pictured  the  man-loving 
Titan  bound  down  by  the  might  of  the  new  servants 
of  the  gods  to  the  thunder-beaten  crags  of  the  Asian 
desert?  For  these  and  more.  Into  the  heart  of 
Prometheus  there  has  crept  a  greater  conception — 
that  of  Love ;  not  the  mere  brutality  of  passion 
such  as  the  new  ruler  of  the  gods  had  for  lo. 
Not  this,  but  in  strong  contrast  to  this.  Aeschylus 
repudiates  the  heroism  of  slaughter  and  the  apotheosis 
of  incestuous  amours  of  gods  and  men.  For  this 
he  suffers,  and  his  cry  goes  up: 

Oh,  dhrine  Aether,  and  ye  swift-wingfed  breezes, 
ye    fountains  of   rivers,  and    ye  uncounted 
laughters  of  the  waves  of  the  deep;  Oh,  earth, 
thou  mother  of  all,  and  ye  all-beholding  circle 
of  the  sun,  I  call  you  to  behold  me,  what  I  a  god 
suffer  at  the  hands  of  the  gods.^ 

For  Aeschylus  is  conscious  that  in  his  awful 
mythology  there  is  something  lacking.  The  rulers 
of  the  minds  of  men  are  changing.  Better  the  god- 
like Aether  and  the  uncounted  laughters  of  the 
waves  of  the  deep ;  better  to  worship,  better  to  call 
upon  the  great,  glorious  Earth,  the  mother  of  all, 
gods  and  men ;  better  return  to  the  deities  of  the  pre- 
homeric  days  than  take  these.  And  why?  The 
whole  drama  of  Prometheus  is  the  answer  to  this 

I  See  Max  Miiller, Orig^in  of  Religion,  131.    2  Prometheus,  88-93. 

34 


query.    Love  is  nobler  than  bloodshed :  the  philan-  *«citcr  in 
thropist  is  greater  than  the  soldier. 

Herein  is  the  greatness  of  Aeschylus ;  he  has 
conceived  Love, — love  suffering  for  others ;  has  typi- 
fied it,  expressed  it  under  bodily  and  visible  form. 
But  this  greatness  is  limited ;  with  love  there  is  a 
coequal,  Justice.  Aeschylus  has  also  conceived 
justice,  but  herein  he  is  lacking  that  he  has  not 
expressed  it  in  like  figure  as  he  has  philanthropy. 

In  the  Eumenides  of  Aeschylus,  outward 
shape,  power  and  being  arc  given  only  to  the  spirit  of 
vengeance  roused  against  a  matricide.  Yet  here 
the  difference  between  the  power  of  Aeschylus  and 
that  of  the  earlier  mythmakers  is  plainly  shown. 
This  embodiment  is  primarily  of  the  inner,  not  of 
the  outer  nature,  and  there  is,  morever,  a  distinct 
artistic  knowledge  of  and  delight  in  such  embodi- 
ment. This  knowledge  and  delight  is  expressed 
over  and  again.  It  is  put  into  the  mouths  of  the 
Erinyes  themselves: 

Tis  ow  Tao    ov\  a^erai 

T€  KoX  Be8oiK€v  PpoT<av, 

ifwv  k\vo>v  $eafjLov 

TOV    fJMipOKpaVTOV    €K    OtSiV 

hodfvra  riXtov ;  —Eumenides,  267. 

Who  then  of  mortals  dreads  not  and  fears  not  these. 
Hearing^  our  office  confirmed  by  fate,  g^iven  perfect 
from  the  gods. 

But  the  keynote  of  the  Eumenides  is  that  to 

35 


which  we  have  given  an  outline,  and  which  is 
expressed  in  the  verse  in  which  Athena  refers  to  the 
Erinyes : 

These  possess  an  office  not  easily  set  aside.' 
This  office  is  to  satisfy  the  demand  for  justice,  the 
human  cry  for  a  right  recompense  for  evil.  That 
he  failed  to  express,  to  symbolize,  to  personify  this, 
Aeschylus  himself  confesses  in  the  very  drama  in  which 
he  endeavored  to  do  so.  For  though  perhaps  not  in 
execution,  yet  in  conception,  the  Eumenides  falls  far 
short  of  the  noble  Prometheus ;  even  while  the  lat- 
ter proves  that  but  for  an  accident  Aeschylus  would 
have  embodied  this  very  demand.  The  Eumenides 
are  the  ministers  of  blood-vengeance,  as  we  have 
seen.  In  the  drama  they  track  a  mother-slayer  to 
his  doom.  We  have  considered  the  excellence,  the 
faithfulness,  of  their  embodiment  in  the  Erinyes.  But 
the  transformation  of  these  into  Eumenides  of  name 
and  word  is  in  itself  a  confession  of  failure.  There 
is  an  evil  beyond  these,  which  Aeschylus  does  not 
attempt  to  portray — an  evil  which  demands  a  more 
fearful  personification  than  any  fury  Aeschylus  could 
conceive. 

8€Lvrj  yap   iv  PpoToi<n  kAv  ^eois  ttcXci 

TOW  irpofTTporraiov  p-rjvi-s,   d  irpoBS)  cr<f}    kKiav. 

— Eumenides,  224. 

Dire  to  men  and  to  gods  is  the  wrath  of  a  suppliant 
If  willingly  I  should  betray  him. 

I  Eumenides,  455. 

36 


The  same  note  is  sounded  in  the  Prometheus  l-wciter  m 

.   ,  ,     .  .     .  Dante'0  f  nTetno* 

7ru)5  ftc  KcAcvcis  KaKOTrjT    acKtiv; 
fX€Ta  TOv8    oTi  )(prj  irda^iiv  iOtXu)' 
Tovs  TrpoSdras  ya^  fuxruv  ifxaOov. 

KOVK    IcTTl    VOCrOS 

T^<rS'  iJvTtv'  dTrcTTTvo-a  /tioXXov. 

— Prometheus,  t087. 

How  ttf  gfest  thou  mc  to  practise  baseness  ? 
With  him  I  choose  to  suffer  what  is  decreed^ 
For  trattorf  I  have  learned  to  despise, 

and  there  is  no  evil 
Which  I  hold  a  gfreater  abomination* 

So  cry  the  chorus  of  see  nymphs,  daughters  of  ocean 

irovTKDv  TC  Kvixdroiv 
anjpiOfWv  ytXaa-fxa, 

— ^the  uncounted  laughters  of  the  waves  of  the  deep. 
But  who  shall  take  this  greatest  abomination  of  all 
abominations — treason*  Personify  it;  give  it  head, 
body,  wings  and  purpose ;  raise  in  the  human  mind 
such  an  unutterable  disgust  for  it  as  it  deserves. 
Easy  is  the  descent  to  Avemus.  But  who  shall  go 
down  to  the  bottom  of  the  bottomless  and  discover 
this  ?  Aeschylus  dared  not  attempt  so  vast  a  crea- 
tion* The  predecessors  of  Aeschylus  had  not  con- 
ceived it* 

It  has  been  well  said  that  the  legend  of  Prome- 
theus lives  in  the  poetry  of  Aeschylus  and  Shelley, 
and  that  the  power  of  one  poet  can  scarcely  be 
measured  but  by  the  equality  of  the  other*    If  this  be 

37 


^be  fallen  truc^  it  would  seem  that  we  might  look  for  the  con- 
*  tinuation  of  the  work  of  Aeschylus  in  the  Prome- 
theus Unbound*  But  there  we  do  not  find  it. 
Shelley  was  so  overcome  with  the  consciousness  of 
the  power  of  love,  of  love  divine,  suffering  for  others 
that  the  conception  of  the  justice  of  punishment  has 
slipped  wholly  by  him.  Shelley  is  so  charmed  by 
the  multitudinous  laughter  of  ocean  that  he  forgets 
the  murderous  grin  of  the  surf ;  and  that  those  also 
are  real  who  *  for  the  sake  of  evil  were  bom,  who 
evil  darkness  inhabit,  Tartarus  beneath  the  earth, 
hated  both  of  men  and  the  Olympian  gods/  Even 
in  the  horrible  Cenci,  where  the  motive  is  similar 
to  that  in  the  Eumenides  of  his  master,  there  does 
not  appear  another  aspect  of  the  greatest  abomina- 
tion of  all.  In  fact,  the  more  we  consider  that  face 
of  Shelley  which  is  turned  towards  Aeschylus,  the 
more  we  are  bound  to  feel  that  his  light  is  of  the 
moon  and  not  the  sun,  is  borrowed  and  not  reful- 
gent. Shelley's  Prometheus  is  the  Prometheus  of 
Aeschylus;  his  Furies  are  the  Eumenides  as  they 
appear. 

Abhorred  virgfins,  children  of  eld,  whom  none  of 
the  gods  or  man  or  beast  at  any  time  embraces.' 

Into  his  nymphs  he  has  put  new  life.  They  are  his 
own.  But  for  the  continuation  downward,  of  which 
Aeschylus  himself  knew,  there  is  not  in  Shelley 
a  hint* 

t  Eumenides,  68-73. 

33 


As  wc  have  said,  the  genius  of  the  Elizabethan  i-wcffcr  fn 
'poets  and  the  limitation  of  their  stage  monopolized 
and  in  one  sense  dwarfed  the  literary  genius  of  the 
English  people.  The  drama  of  the  Renaissance 
.allowed  of  no  attempt  at  any  personification  on  the 
lines  mapped  out  by  Aeschylus.  Marlowe  might 
have  attempted  such  an  embodiment  of  all  evil.  He 
had  the  daring.  But  mocking  Marlowe's  soul  was 
not  bound  to  any  such  depth  as  this ;  while,  perhaps 
[fortunately,  the  muse  of  Shakspeare  was  too  human. 
;If  it  could  have  been  done  in  England,  Milton  alone 
was  left  to  perform  it.  His  position  peculiarly  fitted 
him  for  the  work.  He  passed  through  storm  scenes, 
where  perfidy  and  war  were  as  ever  mingled.  His 
Puritan  training  showed  him  many  men  whom  he 
must  have  considered  arch  traitors  to  God,  their 
country  and  humanity.  His  last  days,  like  Dante's, 
were  of  defeat  and  exile.  Vice  rose  triumphant, 
mocking  at  his  poverty  and  blindness.  Latin  and 
Greek  versification  was  a  recreation  to  which  he 
turned  as  a  relief  from  his  life-work.  He  was  well 
in  touch  with  the  poetry  of  Italy.  He  was  familiar 
equally  with  the  Divine  Comedy  and  the  symbolism 
of  the  earliest  English  satirist — ^the  only  Englishman 
who  in  intensity  of  symbolization  is  to  be  likened  to 
the  poet  of  the  nethermost  deep.  We  have  already 
seen  the  glory  only  dimmed  of  Milton's  Satan.  Wc 
have  seen  him  weeping  tears  such  as  angels  weep ; 

39 


Ube  Jaiien  -^g  can  see  nowhere  in  the  Paradise  Lost  the  horror 
*  of  treason  portrayed  in  its  deformity.  Sin  springs 
from  the  head  of  Satan  a  beautiful  being — ^this  is  the 
sin  of  ambition.  Ambition  and  sin  bring  forth 
death,  and  these  a  horrible  brood  of  hellhounds. 
The  conception  is  mighty,  the  workmanship  mighty ; 
but  however  we  may  view  it,  Milton  has  no  more 
than  transferred  the  Trojan  Epos  to  grander  and 
more  spiritual  battlefields.  *  Et  souvent  aJfec  Diea 
balance  la  'btctoire*  is  the  measure  of  Milton  failure. 
Milton  is  the  Puritan  Homer.  There  is  no  com- 
parison of  him  with  Aeschylus,  and  in  no  one  sense 
is  he  the  continuation  of  Aeschylus,  any  more  than 
the  vast  pile  of  a  mediaeval  cathedral  is  a  continua- 
tion of  the  simplicity  of  an  Ionic  pillar* 

Let  us  here  recapitulate.  The  crowning  poet 
of  Ancient  Greece  is  Aeschylus ;  in  this,  that  he  has 
given  life  and  palpable  being  to  the  idea  of  Love  in 
Prometheus,  and  through  the  hint  and  shortcoming 
of  the  Eumenides,  he  left  it  as  a  legacy  to  his  suc- 
cessors, to  as  well  typify  and  adequately  portray  the 
horrible  vision  of  inexorable  justice  claiming  and 
punishing  the  most  abominable  of  all  sin — ^betrayal* 
In  other  words,  the  spiritual  successor  of  Aeschylus 
must  embody  in  a  form  living  for  all  time  the  vision 
of  this  sin  working  its  own  punishment.  All  the 
ancients,  summed  up  in  Dante's  master,  Virgil,  left 
this  work  untouched;  Shelley, repudiating  punish- 

40 


ment,  and  overcome  by  the  intensity  of  his  love^  did  ^wcifcc  in 
not  even  know  that  such  a  task  remained.     John 
Milton  knew  of  the  task  and  emulated  it.     But  the 
puritan,  the  pure  philosophical  desire  in  him  to 

Justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men, 
led  him  after  a  false  light.  We  have  seen  with 
what  power.  Sin  and  death  the  offspring  of  the  arch 
[traitor,  and  the  hellhounds,  who  are  their  offspring, 
mutually  torment  themselves.  Satan  himself  is  not 
smirched;  the  deceiver  of  mankind  still  holds  his 
glory  and  his  star ;  still  weeps 

Tears  such  as  angfels  weep. 
Nor  will  the  puritan  and  philosophic  doubt  in 
Milton^s  soul  allow  him  to  bind  mere  men  such  as 
^  Judas,  Cain  and  Wentworth,  in  a  punishment  which 
cherubim  endure.  For  in  Satan,  Milton  has  drawn 
us  a  princely  sinner,  a  Lucifer  of  the  intellect  with 
slightly  tarnished  glory.  Instead  of  loathsomeness, 
there  is  that  in  him  which  speaks  home  to  the 
noblest  of  our  attributes  and  leaves  a  thrill  of  sym- 
pathy. 

High  on  a  throne  of  royal  state/  which  far 
Outshone  the  weahh  of  Ormus  and  of  Ind, 
Or  where  the  gorgeous  East  with  richest  hand 
Showers  on  her  kings  barbaric  pearl  and  gold, 
Satan  exahed  sat. 

The  Satanology  of  the  Rabbis  contributed  little 
to  conception  of  The  Fallen  God.    Largely  derived, 

41 


^^^  ^ffi^^"  ^^  Doctor  Kohut  has  shown,  from  Parsecism,  it 
*  makes  no  mention  of  a  Kingdom  of  Satan.  In  the 
Talmud  the  power  of  evil  is  not  contrasted  with  that 
of  good,  nor  is  Satan  represented  as  the  enemy  of 
God.  Rabbinism  viewed  the  *  great  enemy  *  only  as 
the  envious  and  malicious  opponent  of  man,  the 
spiritual  element  was  eliminated.  Instead  of  a  pow- 
erful principle  of  evil  we  have  only  a  clumsy,  often  a 
stupid  hater.  This  holds  equally  true  in  regard  to 
the  threefold  aspect  under  which  Rabbinism  presents 
the  devil:  as  Satan  or  Sammaet;  as  the  Yetsen  haka 
or  evil  impulse  in  man  personified;  and  as  the  Angel 
of  *Death*  In  other  words,  as  the  Accuser;  Tempter 
and  Punisher.  But  there  is  nothing  here  which  had 
not  been  told  and  better  told  by  Aeschylus. 

Dante,  and  Dante  alone,  is  the  true  successor  of 
Aeschylus;  a  greater  than  Aeschylus.  He  alone 
has  in  some  measure  attained  to  and  completed  what 
Aeschylus  assayed.  His  conception  of  Lucifer  is 
the  supreme  intellectual  conception  of  the  Fallen 
God.  Nothing  in  ancient  or  modem  literature  has, 
or  perhaps  ever  will,  equal  it.  With  him  Lucifer  is 
as  repulsive  as  Milton's  Satan  is  fascinating^  All 
glory  is  alien  to  him ;  all  things  of  sin  are  a  part  of 
and  have  their  source  in  him.  All  the  multitudinous 
aspects  of  his  being  are  varying  reverberations  and 
revelations  of  a  single  thing — Evil,  pure  and  infinite. 
He  is  All-evil ;  the  author  of  all  the  sin  mankind 


endures.  Every  allusion  to  the  former  state  of  *wcifer  in 
Luciier,  is  in  the  Inlemot  veiled  and  oblique ;  and  in 
the  last  canto,  the  unfathomable  spiritual  loathsome- 
ness is  so  strongly  insisted  upon,  that  it  would  be 
physically  repulsive,  did  not  Dante,  by  consummate 
art,  transmute  the  realism  with  an  intensely  imag- 
inative symbolism.  The  one  faint  gleam  of  apparent 
ideality  left  to  Lucifer  is  his  name ;  but,  in  fact,  even 
that  is  only  darkness  visible,  ironic  emblem  of  what 
once  he  was — Ecco  Dite  I 

il  punto 

DcII '  Unrverso,  in  su  chc  Dite  siede. 

Then,  too,  with  his  hugeness  of  person,  which 
is  made  a  measurable  loathsomeness,  and  with  all 
his  acts,  whose  vileness  is  infinite,  there  goes,  para- 
doxically, infinite  imbecility.  Though  his  influence 
beats  through  hell  and  into  the  world,  and  gives  to 
the  realms  of  sin  all  their  being,  his  motions  have 
all  the  futility  of  perfect  machinery  with  no  other 
function  than  to  express  utter  lack  of  function,  when 
there  should  be  supreme  function.  Only  in  this  case 
of  Lucifer,  this  dead  activity  in  place  of  glorious 
activity  is  not  mechanical,  but  spiritual.  Such  is 
the  death-in-life  Lucifer  (that  is.  Evil),  all-fulfilled  of 
self,  has  brought  upon  himself. 

This  conception  that,  although  Lucifer  is 
strangely  living,  he  is  also  strangely  dead,  is 
strengthened  by  Farinata*s  reply  to  Dante's  question 

43 


to  the  kind  of  knowledge  the  damned  possess* 

Noi  vcgfgfiam,  come  quei  c'  ha  mala  luce, 
Le  cose,  disse,  che  ne  son  lontano : 
Cotanto  ancof  ne  splende  il  sommo  Duce. 

Quando  s*  appressano,  o  son,  totto  ^  vano 
Nostf  o  intelletto ;  c,s*altri  nol  ci  apporta, 
Nulla  sapcm  di  vostr o  stato  umano. 

Per 6  compr endcr  puoi,  che  tutta  morta 
Fia  nostra  conoscenza  da  quel  punto, 
Che  del  futuro  fia  chiusa  la  porta. 

—Inferno  c.  34,  100-103. 

We  see,  like  those  who  have  imperfect  sig:ht. 
The  things,  he  said,  that  distant  are  from  us ; 
So  much  still  shines  on  us  the  Sovereign  Ruler. 

When  they  draw  near,  or  are,  is  wholly  vain 
Our  intellect,  and  if  none  bringfs  it  to  us. 
Not  anything:  know  we  of  your  human  state. 

Hence  thou  canst  understand,  that  wholly  dead 
Will  be  our  knowledge  from  the  moment  when 
The  portal  of  the  future  shall  be  closed. 

Even  these  few  faint  beams  from  God's  far-off 
radiance  will  at  the  day  of  doom  be  withdrawn. 
Then  the  living  death  will  forever  settle  down  upon 
the  dolorous  realm. 

A  consideration  of  several  passages  from  the 
last  canto  of  the  Inferno  will  serve  either  as  concrete 
illustrations  or  as  refutations  of  what  has  just  been 
written ;  revealing  at  the  same  time  the  marvellous 
variety  in  the  severe  unity  of  Dante's  conception  of 
Lucifer  and  Evil. 

44 


Dante  and  Virgil  have  entered  the  Judecca,  the  ^ucftcr  in 
fourth  and  last  division  of  the  ninth  circle,  which 
contains  those  who  were  traitors  to  beneficent  lords* 
Here. 

I'  ombre  tutte  eran  coperte, 

E  trasparen  come  festuca  in  vetro. 
Altre  sono  a  gfiacere ;  altre  stanno  erte, 
Quella  col  capo,  e  quella  colle  piante ; 
Altra,  compare  o,  il  capo  a'piedi  inverte* 

— Inferno,  c.  34,  tl-tS, 

....  where  the  shades  were  wholly  covered,  and 
showed  througfh  like  a  straw  in  glass*  Some  are 
lying ;  some  stand  erect,  this  on  his  head,  and  that 
on  his  soles ;  another  like  a  bow  inverts  his  face  to 
his  feet. 

A  world  of  meaning  lurks  in  the  opening  verse  of 
this  canto  as  spoken  by  Virgil  in  the  depths  of  hell. 

Vexilla  Regis  prodeunt  Infemi. 
The  banners  of  the  King  of  Hell  advance. 

These  words  must,  with  the  reminiscences  they 
arouse,  pierce  the  heart  of  the  three  traitors — Judas, 
Brutus  and  Cassius.  They  hint  of  the  far-off 
pageants  of  the  church  militant  and  triumphant, 
making  by  contrast  present  horrors  more  horrible ; 
and  their  apparent  solemn  utterance  of  praise  is,  at 
the  closing  word,  inverted  to  a  grim  and  almost 
sacred  mockery  of  evil  in  the  heart  of  the  empire. 

Then  follows  a  passage,  full  in  its  music,  and 
suited  in  its  imagery  to  the  gloomy  majesty  of  Luci- 
fer when  seen  from  afar. 

45 


XTbe  fallen  Come,  quando  una  grossa  nebbia  spira, 

®®*'*  O  quando  1'  emisperio  nostro  annotta. 

Par  da  lungi  on  mulin  che  *1  vcnto  gir a ; 
Vedcr  mi  parvc  «n  tal  dif  icio  allotta. 

— Inferno,  c,  24,  4-7, 

As  a  mill  that  the  wind  ttims  seems  from  afar 
when  a  thick  fog  breathes,  or  when  our  hemis- 
phere grows  dark  with  night,  such  a  structure 
then  it  seemed  to  me  I  saw. 

This  soon  changes,  with  terrible  irony,  to  a  revela- 
tion of  Lucifer  as  he  really  is  when  seen  close. 
(5ee  verses  28  to  69  ;  Lo  imperado/  to  a'bem  'beduto). 

Thus  the  banners  have  become  the  vast  bat- 
like  wings  of  Lucifer,  which  in  their  swift  rise  and 
fall  seem  to  advance,  all  the  more  because  the  poets 
arc  rapidly  moving  toward  them.  All  the  toil  of 
scholars  has  not  made  clear  the  meaning  of  the  three 
faces.  Says  Longfellow :  '  The  Ottimo  and  Ben- 
venuto  both  interpret  the  three  faces  as  symbolizing 
Ignorance,  Hatred  and  Impotence.  Others  interpret 
them  as  signifying  the  three-quarters  of  the  then 
known  world,  Europe,  Asia  and  Africa.*  Miss 
Rosetti  says  the  faces  are  *a  symbol  of  Lucifer's 
dominion  over  all  reprobates  from  the  three  parts  of 
the  world,  the  complexions  being  respectively  of 
Europe,  Asia  and  Africa/  Blanc  (quoted  by  Ver- 
non) *  thinks  that  Dante  has  certainly  intended  to 
present  Satan  with  his  three  faces  as  a  direct  anti- 
type of  the  Holy  Trinity.'    May  not  the  last  two 

46 


conjectures  both  be  right;  at  least  partially?  Since  ^^^^^^^^'^  *" 
Dante,  like  Shakspeare,  is  fond  of  a  reduplication  of 
meaning,  often  even  in  a  single  word.  To  the 
objection  to  this  view,  that  these  three  bestial  faces 
are  the  direct  antitype  of  God  in  his  three-fold  unity, 
to  wit,  that  it  too  greatly  dignifies  Lucifer,  it  may  be 
replied  that  Dante  may  once  again  be  employing  his 
figure  in  direct  irony  against  sin,  and  that  Lucifer's 
form  may  be  a  grim  and  tormenting  parody  of  the 
antitype  he  desired  to  be  when  he  presumed  to 
attempt  to  rival  him,  who  in  His  infinity  and  incom- 
prehensibleness  can  have  no  antitype*  Then  even 
to  Lucifer  himself,  his  physical  being  would  be  a  bit- 
ter mockery.  At  any  rate,  even  though  Lucifer  is 
the  complete  antitype  of  God,  Dante  deliberately 
suppresses  all  mention  of  the  fact.  This  in  itself 
may  be  the  finest  irony. 

Brutus,  Cassius,  Judas  Iscariot !  These  are  the 
three  arch  sinners  whom  Satan's  teeth  are  champ- 
ing* The  first  is  the  betrayer  of  his  king;  the 
second  is  the  betrayer  of  his  friend  and  king ;  the 
third  is  the  betrayer  of  his  friend,  his  king  and  his 
God. 

We  now  come  to  the  difficult  passage,  describ- 
ing the  real  ascent,  but  apparent  descent  of  the  poets 
as  they  climb  over  Lucifer.    {See  'verses  70-93). 

*This  point  is  the  centre  of  the  universe;  when 
Virgil  had  turned  upon  the  haunch  of  Lucifer,  the 

47 


Zbc  ifaiicn  passage  had  been  made  from  one  hemisphere  of  the 

^°^*  earth-the  inhabited  and  known  hemisphere-to  the 

other,  where  no  living  men  dwell,  and  where  the 

only  land  is  the  mountain  of  Purgatory/    (Norton). 

The  symbolic  meaning  of  this  description  is, 
as  it  seems;  that  Dante  typifies  the  human  soul, 
journeying  through  the  snares  of  evil  toward  salva- 
tion ;  that  is,  toward  the  love  of  God.  Hell  is  the 
realm  of  sin,  and  Purgatory  that  of  absolving 
penance,  whereto  true  repentance  is  the  portal.  Fig- 
uratively, then,  the  moment  Dante  turns  round  upon 
the  exact  centre  of  Lucifer,  the  focus  of  evil,  the 
world  and  the  universe,  and  begins  the  climb 
toward  Purgatory,  toward  atonement,  a  spiritual 
crisis  has  been  passed.  A  bewildering  change  comes 
upon  the  physical  universe,  corresponding  to  that 
which  comes  upon  the  soul  when  its  new  life  is 
begun.  By  the  souPs  new  vision  all  things,  old  and 
familiar,  are  made  so  strangely  new,  with  altered 
or  inverted  importance,  that  at  first  its  perplexity  is 
greater  than  its  enlightenment. 

The  monotonous  beating  of  Lucifer's  wings, 
the  ceaseless  champing  of  his  teeth,  his  impotence  to 
utter  a  word  or  to  make  other  than  mechanical 
motions,  the  desolation  of  a  land  of  ice  and  life- 
congealing  winds,  the  intense  darkness  of  the  vast 
cavern  below  the  earth's  surface,  in  which  the  soli- 
tary voices  of  Dante  and  Virgil  sound  alien,  hoarse 


48 


and  hollow, — all  these  things  present  a  picture  more  iwcifer  in 
terrible  than  mere  solitude  and  silence,  and  a  life 
more  dead  than  death* 

Yet  so  austere  and  restrained  is  Dante's  imag- 
ination, and  so  intense  the  underplay  and  overplay 
of  spiritual  meaning,  direct  or  indirect,  that  although 
the  grotesque  hideousness  of  evil  is  fully  revealed, 
the  revelation  is  noble ;  nor  do  we  ever,  as  some- 
times in  reading  Shakspeare,  feel  as  though  we  were 
too  close  to  the  borders  of  madness,  prompted  by 
visions* 

That  lawless  and  uncertain  thought 

Imagfine  howling;. 

Now  the  painful  upward  journey  begins ;  light 
from  the  better  world  dawns  faintly ;  and  spiritual 
death  and  all  that  make  for  death,  are  left  behind  in 
their  *  deep  backward  and  abysm/ 

Salknmo  su,  ei  primo  ed  io  secondo, 
Tanto  ch'  io  vidi  delle  cose  belle, 
Che  porta  il  ciel,  per  un  pertug^io  tondo : 

E  quindi  uscimmo  a  riveder  le  stelle* 

— Inferno,  c.  34,  end. 

We  mounted  up,  he  first  and  I  second,  till 
through  a  round  opening  I  saw  of  those  beau- 
teous things  which  heaven  bears,  and  thence  we 
came  forth  to  see  again  the  stars. 

In  the  life  of  every  man  two  beings  struggle 
vehemently  for  mastery — the  Flesh  and  the  Spirit. 
The  function  of  the  Intellect,  during  the  struggle,'is 

49 


tCbc  fallen  strangely  impartiaL  It  accomplishes  no  more  than 
*""•  to  afford  man  a  more  or  less  adequate  comprehension 
of  the  internal  conflict.  Crowning  itself  pontifex 
maximust  the  intellect  proclaims  its  divine  right  and 
infallibility  as  judge  in  the  domains  of  faith  and 
morals,  and  from  man's  intellectual  impartiality  in 
the  confrontation  of  good  and  evil,  is  born — Lucifer. 
The  Greek  intellect  was  impotent  in  the  presence  of 
evil ;  whereas  the  meanest  hireling  may  and  does, 
when  he  will,  overcome  satan.  For,  like  every 
vital  thing,  the  conception  of  Lucifer — the  fallen  god, 
— source  of  all  evil,  himself  All-evil,  has  and  is 
having  its  organic  development.  The  Greek  mind, 
conceived  of  personifications  of  guilt,  of  the  stings 
of  guilty  conscience;  personifications  even  of  Evil 
itself.  But  its  evil  was  destitute  of  spiritual  signifi- 
cance. This  element  of  spirituality  is  the  informing 
principle  which  imparts  to  Dante's  Lucifer  his  im- 
portance, his  significance,  his  reality. 

How  far  it  is  possible  to  go  in  this  development 
of  the  conception  of  the  fallen  god  is  indicated  by 
Henry  Mills  Alden  when,  in  view  of  the  *  restoration 
of  all  things,'  he  says  :  *  Lucifer  is  light-bearer,  the 
morning  star,  and  whatever  disguises  he  may  take 
in  falling,  there  can  be  no  new  dawn  that  shall  not 
witness  his  rising  in  his  original  brightness.' 


50 


SINCERITY  IN  ART 


NASMUCH  as  sincerity 
is  commonly  apprehended 
as  the  opposite  of  feigning, 
it  seems  like  a  contradiction 
to  speak  of  sincerity  in  re- 
lation to  a  work  of  art; 
art  being  essentially  imita- 
tion, or  feigning,  as  Plato 
defined  it,  and  after  him, 
Aristotle. 

The  Othello,  pacing  the  stage,  his  heart  gnawed 
by  the  venom-pangs  of  jealousy  as  he  lends  ear  to 
lago^s  villain  slander,  is  not  the  Moor,  but  Edwin 
Booth,  Henry  Irving,  or  some  other  actor  whom  we 
have  admired  in  other  characters ;  yet  are  we  affected 
by  the  feigned  distress.  As  we  follow  the  events  of  his 
tragic  history,  we  are  even  moved  to  tears  for  the 
sorrows  of  the  Moor,  and  express  our  admiration  by 
applauding  the  actor  who  feigns  these  passions. 

Why  do  we  applaud  the  actor  ?    Because  he  is 

55 


SfnccrltB  in  ^  sincere  artist.  'Ah,  but  it  has  been  a  feigning  all 
'  the  time  I '  Truly  so,  but  the  feigning  is  in  accord- 
ance with  the  artist's  nature  and  aptitudes,  with  his 
capacity  for  feeling  and  for  expression ;  therefore  he 
is,  as  an  artist,  sincere.  Were  that  same  artist  to 
assume  the  part  of  Rip  Van  Winkle,  probably  we 
should  long  for  our  Joseph  Jefferson.  The  actor  is 
permitted  to  assume  the  garb,  the  looks,  the  manner, 
the  passion  and  personality  of  a  stage  character,  but 
it  is  not  permitted  him  to  be  false  either  to  his  own 
self  or  to  his  hearers,  by  counterfeiting  any  character 
or  personality,  that  is  foreign  to  his  own  proper  tem- 
perament or  his  own  histrionic  powers. 

All  this  is  palpably  true  of  the  art  of  theatrical 
representation ;  it  is  not  less  true  of  all  the  arts.  A 
few  examples  will  show  that  sincerity  is  a  prime 
essential  in  works  of  sculpture  and  painting. 

Consider  the  Artemis  of  the  Naples  museum. 
Is  this  figure  genuinely  archaic,  sculptured  when 
Grecian  or  Italo-Grecian  art  was  still  in  its  infancy  ? 
Or  must  it  be  referred  to  a  later  period  and  regarded 
as  a  studied  counterpart  of  obsolete  antique  forms — 
a  Brumagem  archaic  goddess  ? 

With  its  soulless  placidity  of  countenance,  with 
the  stiff  regularity  of  the  minute  pleats  of  the  robe, 
which  even  the  hasty  stride  of  the  figure  cannot  dis- 
arrange, the  Artemis  might  well  pass  as  a  genuine 
specimen  of  archaic  art. 

56 


But  if  our  attention  rests  on  that  step  which  we  sincerity  in 
have  purposely  described  as  *  hasty/  and  if  we  note 
the  graceful  gesture  of  the  arms,  so  fittingly  accom- 
fpanying  the  movement  of  the  whole  body,  we  arc 
forced  to  refer  the  statue  to  a  more  recent  period. 
Genuine  archaic  statues  are  wholly  actionless; 
instance  the  celebrated  funeral  stela  in  the  Athens 
museum.  It  bears  a  bas-relief  figure  of  an  armed 
man,  known  as  cMarathonomachoSt  fighter  at  Mara- 
thon. Here  the  sculptor,  though  he  makes  the  legs 
divaricate  a  little,  to  show  that  the  warrior  was 
marching,  nevertheless  fails  utterly  to  suggest  the 
idea  of  motion,  that  being  beyond  the  capacity  of 
archaic  Grecian  sculpture. 

How  and  wherefore  it  came  to  pass  that  artists, 
probably  Greek  artists,  were  led  to  fashion  such 
statues  as  the  Artemis,  is  a  question  easily  answered 
when  we  consider  that  in  Italy,  in  the  last  period  of 
the  Roman  Commonwealth,  there  were  whole  popu- 
lations that  held  fast  to  the  ancient  order  and  clung 
to  primitive  beliefs.  These  scrupled  to  pay  adora- 
tion, or  to  offer  prayer  or  sacrifice  to  the  graceful 
statues  of  gods  introduced  from  conquered  Corinth 
and  Athens.  The  beauty  of  those  figures  scandal- 
ized the  naif  religious  sentiment  of  these  conserva- 
tives ;  they  demanded  figures  of  gods  such  as  their 
forefathers  had  worshiped.  The  sculptor,  in  com- 
pliance with  the  taste  of  his  patron,  was  then  obliged 

57 


Sinceriti2  in  to  resort  to  the  trick  which  many  a  Florentine  work- 
*  man  practices  nowadays  when  he  fashions  chests 
and  cabinets  in  thirteenth  century  styles.  But  even 
as  the  modem  wood-carver  never  can  attain  the 
quaint  elegance  of  the  earlier  artists,  so  those  ancient 
Italo-Grecian  sculptors  could  not  entirely  forego  their 
acquired  proficiency,  nor  so  completely  unlearn,  for 
the  nonce,  the  canons  of  art  as  ascertained  in  their 
own  day,  as  to  render  the  true  spirit  of  archaism. 
They  produced  only  pieces  of  seeming-ancient  work- 
manship, which  artistically  were  not  sincere. 

Passing  from  Roman  and  Grecian  art,  to  the 
I  art  of  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century,  we  may 
instance  the  works  of  Antonio  Canova.  Canova  lived 
in  the  palmy  days  of  restored  classicism.  This  revival 
was  due  to  the  French  Revolution,  when  France 
I  tried  to  persuade  herself  that  her  Commonwealth  was 
a  counterpart  of  the  republics  of  Rome  and  Athens, 
and  that  Bonaparte  was  Caesar  or  Alexander  come 
again.  In  those  days  ladies  affected  Grecian  cos- 
tumes and  coiffures;  pottery  aped  the  forms  of 
(ancient  paterae  and  amphorae;  articles  of  house 
'furniture  were  assimilated  to  ancient  classic  forms, 
and  the  psuedo-antique  dominated  public  and  private 
life. 

Living  in  a  society  eager  to  persuade  itself  that 
Grecian  and  pagan  ideals  were  again  to  reign, 
Canova  adopted  the  fashion,  and  modeled  Grecian 

58 


or  pagan  deities.   Consider  his  *  Venus  Rising  From  Sfnceritg  In 
the  Bath  *  in  the  Galleria  Pitti  at  Florence ;  and,  to    ^ ' 
appreciate  correctly  its  artistic  value,  it  is  necessary 
to  remember  how  the  Grecians  were  wont  to  repre- 
sent their  Aphrodite. 

In  the  age  of  Phidias,  Aphrodite  was  indeed  the 
goddess  both  of  love  and  of  beauty;  such  she  appears 
in  the  Venus  of  Milo,  a  stately  figure,  divinely  fair. 
To  Phidian  grandeur  succeeded  Praxitelean  loveli- 
ness,which  in  his  disciples  and  imitators  soon  degen- 
erated into  excessive  softness  and  mannerism.  This 
we  see  in  the  ApoIIine  of  the  Uffizi.  We  find  in  the 
Galleria  degli  Uffizi  a  good  imitation  of  Praxiteles, 
the  Venus  of  Medici.  In  this  statue  Venus  has  lost 
much  of  her  primitive  stateliness ;  she  has  become 
more  human ;  she  is  still 

hominum  divomque  voluptas 
Alma  Venus ; 
Joy  of  men  and  g:ods,  benig^nant  Venos. — Lucretius. 
but  she  is  no  more  empress  of  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky, 
temtm  naturam  sola  sfubemans. 
Thou  alone  all  nature  rulest.  — ib. 

imparting  fruitfulness  to  all  the  denizens  of  air,  sea 
and  land.  She  is  now  simply  the  goddess  of  love, 
of  human  love,  gentle  and  bewitching,  but  still  a 
divine  being.  Considered  from  this  point  of  view, 
the  Medicean  Venus  is  sincere. 

To  the  mind  of  Canova,  living  in  the  Napoleonic 

59 


sincerity  in  gj.^,  how  could  Venus  appear  as  a  goddess  ?  The 
*  pagan  spirit  pervading  every  branch  of  art  and 
learning  with  which  the  sculptor  was  in  contact, 
might  somewhat  weaken,  but  could  not  entirely 
eclipse  modem  feeling.  Under  these  circumstances 
the  practice  of  art  meant  perpetual  effort,  and  not 
even  Canova's  skill  could  conceal  the  evidences  of 
painful  endeavor  to  seem  to  be  what  he  was  not. 
With  all  his  genius,  Canova  has  utterly  failed  to  give 
us  a  Venus ;  instead,  he  gives  us  a  very  charming 
lady  of  early  nineteenth  century,  a  dame  d'honnear 
of  Josephine  or  Marie  Louise,  wearing  the  Grecian 
headdress  which  fashion  had  made  obligatory ;  but 
not  a  Grecian  goddess.  The  Venus  of  Canova  is, 
therefore,  not  a  sincere  work  of  art. 

It  is  due  to  Canova  to  concede  that  the  fault 
was  not,  properly  speaking,  his,  but  that  of  the 
world  in  which  he  lived.  We  have  a  splendid  proof 
of  his  genuine  artistic  genius  in  the  mausoleum 
of  Pope  Clement  XIIL,  in  the  Vatican  basilica. 
Clement  (Rezzonico),  an  old  man,  is  kneeling  on  a 
cushion  and  in  prayer.  Though  he  is  draped  in  the 
pontifical  mantle,  it  is  not  as  Pope  that  he  prays,  nor 
yet  is  he  praying  for  the  whole  world ;  with  palms 
joined,  he  prays  as  a  man  earnestly  and  devoutly  for 
himself.  The  conception  is  grand  and  in  harmony 
with  the  idea  of  a  sepulchre — that  bourne  where  all 
human  distinctions  of  rank  and  power  are  forever 

60 


annulled.  Canova  might  have  searched  never  so  Sinceritslin 
diligently  among  Grecian  or  Roman  models,  he 
could  not  have  found  anything  like  this  modem  and 
Christian  inspiration ;  it  sprang  spontaneously  from 
his  own  soul,  and  the  work  is  a  beautiful  and 
sincere  masterpiece. 

Another  example  is  found  in  the  works  of 
Pietro  Vannucci,  better  known  as  Pietro  Perugino. 
In  Umbria,  during  the  fifteenth  century,  we  find, 
beginning  with  that  painter  of  Fabriano,  so  well 
named  Gentile,  a  flourishing  school,  an  uninterrupted 
sequence  of  artists  individually  little  known  to  fame, 
but  gentle  all,  and  inspired  with  a  religious  mysti- 
cism. The  mood  may  be  traced  to  the  influence  of 
the  aspects  of  nature  round  about,  the  quiet  grandeur 
of  the  surrounding  hills  and  shady  valleys;  or  it 
may  have  been  fostered  by  reminiscences  of  St. 
Francis  of  Assisi's  preaching,  which,  in  the  saint's 
own  epoch,  called  into  being  a  great  school  of  mys- 
tical lyrics.  Whatever  may  have  been  the  cause,  it 
is  certain  that  a  spirit  of  mysticism,  if  not  very 
deep,  at  least  very  genuine,  inspired  the  Umbrian 
school  of  the  second  half  of  the  century  in  which 
Pietro  Perugino  began  to  paint. 

Was  Perugino's  nature  really  inclined  toward 
mysticism  ?  It  would  be  worth  while  to  study  the 
man  in  his  personal  appearance,  *  in  those  features 
which  bear  witness  to  the  heart  * ;  and  this  is  easily 

61 


StncetftB  in  ^Jonc  in  that  portrait  of  him  by  himseli,  now  in  the 
Sala  del  Cambio  in  Perugia,  In  that  rounded,  com- 
monplace visage  is  no  suggestion  of  ideality.  In 
those  firm-set  lips  and  those  frowning  brows,  deeply 
furrowed  by  anxious  worldly  thoughts,  we  read  the 
character  of  a  misen 

Vasari  thus  delineates  the  character  of  the  man: 
I  *  The  terror  of  poverty  being  always  present  to  his 
mind,  he  would  for  the  love  of  gain  do  many  things 
which  he  would  never  have  done  were  he  not  so 

poor In  his   hankering  after  money,   he 

cared  neither  for  cold,  nor  hunger,  nor  hard  work,  nor 
weariness,  if  only  he  might  hope  to  live  some  day 
in  affluence  and  well-earned  repose/ 

A  covetous  man  he  certainly  was ;  and  Vasari 

itells  even  worse  things  about  this  artist.    But  we 

[cannot  believe  Perugino  to  have  been  the  atheist 

Vasari  would  make  him  appear ;  yet  we  may  safely 

conclude  that    his  religious  professions  were   not 

sincere. 

Let  us  turn  to  his  works,  and  study  the  panel 
representing  the  Madonna  and  Saints,  found  in  the 
Tribuna  degli  Uffizi,  at  Florence.  Sitting  in  front 
of  a  double-vaulted  portico,  an  architectural  back- 
ground often  employed  by  Perugino,  the  Madonna 
holds  the  Bambino  in  her  lap.  On  the  curved 
pedestal  we  read: 

Petnts  Perusinus  pinzit  an*  MCCCCLXXXXUI. 

62 


The  Madonna  is  as  graceful  and  pretty  a  woman  as  S^wcerits  in 
Perugino  was  able  to  put  on  canvas ;  but  she  is  one 
of  those  creatures  whom  nature  has  gifted  with  fair, 
sweet  features,  rather  than  with  deep  and  genuine 
ideality.  In  a  word,  a  woman  such  as  Leonardo  da 
Vinci,  painter  of  the  feeling  and  the  mind,  the  deepest 
thinker  among  all  the  Italian  artists,  would  never 
have  given  to  the  world  as  the  Madonna. 

Perugino  has  idealized  his  Madonna  by  giving 
her  finely-arched  brows,  languorous  eyes  half  veiled 
by  drooping  lids,  a  straight  nose,  wreathed  mouth, 
delicate,  beautiful  face.  Expression,  there  is  none, 
or  only  an  expression  of  sweet  vacuity,  betokening 
sluggish  intellect  and  absence  of  will.  No  interior 
struggle  will  ever  spoil  the  composure  of  those 
suave  faultless  contours.  The  Mother  holds  her 
Babe  with  artless  grace,  but  seems  not  to  care  much 
for  Him  or  for  St.  Sebastian, who,  by  a  hardy  anach- 
ronism, is  pictured  standing,  pierced  with  arrows, 
at  her  right  hand.  She  would  feel  pity  for  him  if 
she  were  the  true  Madonna ;  but,  there's  the  rub. 
She  is  not  the  Madonna,  but  only  a  contadina  model 
earning  her  wages ;  and  when  she  sits  there  com- 
posedly, with  somebody's  baby  in  her  lap,  she  per- 
forms her  whole  duty,  and  nothing  more  is  required 
or  expected  of  her.  We  find  no  fault  with  the 
Bambino ;  he  is  a  nice  chubby-faced  child. 

On  the  left  is  St.  John  the  Baptist,  wearing  a 

63 


Sincerity  in  mantle  over  his  tunic  of  goat  skin ;  a  fair  youth, 
*  slender  and  well-shaped,  as  Perugino^s  young  men 
usually  are.  Another  bold  anachronism,  for  if  the 
Bambino  is  a  yearling  babe,  John  must  be  precisely 
eighteen  months  old.  The  face  of  John  expresses 
placid  composure,  verging  on  stupidity,  but  the 
features  are  decidedly  good.  While  the  gaze  of  the 
Bambino  is  fixed  upon  him,  what  is  the  Forerunner 
doing  ?  There  is  neither  spiritual  expression  in  his 
face  nor  spiritual  significance  in  his  gesture. 

There  is  in  this  youth  nothing  of  the  Precursor; 
he  might  stand  for  an  errand  boy  returning  from  the 
market*  Instead  of  a  group  possessing  a  deeply 
mystic  signification,  we  have  here  simply  a  collec- 
tion of  good-looking,  but  vulgar  people. 

St.  Sebastian,  with  two  arrows  sticking  in  his 
body,  cannot,  even  in  this  august  presence,  be 
unmindful  of  his  pains,  so  the  artist  cleverly  com- 
bines in  the  action  of  this  figure  the  expression  of 
physical  suffering  and  all-subduing  faith.  The 
upturned  and  foreshortened  head  of  Sebastian,  con- 
sidered apart  and  for  itself,  might  be  pronounced  a 
masterpiece,  were  it  not  that  in  it  we  recognize  one 
of  Perugino^s  hackneyed  and  stale  fetches,  not 
always  employed  to  express  St.  Sebastian's  martyr- 
pains. 

Perugino's  compositions  beguile  us  into  an 
admiration  which  they  do  not  merit.    In  each  the 

(A 


figures  arc  well  painted,  and  considered  individually,  Sinccritg  fn 
are  admirable,  though  somewhat  trite  from  repetition ; 
moreover,  the  grouping  is  always  graceful.  Still  this 
is  not  high  art ;  it  is  clever  workmanship,  artisan- 
ship,  but  it  is  of  the  same  grade  as  the  mechanic 
handicrafts;  the  painter's  studio  is  only  a  factory 
for  production  of  religious  paintings.  So  much  for 
Perugino's  mystical  spirit. 

Yet  was  he  a  true  artist ;  not  because  he  was  a 
skilled  draughtsman  and  master  of  all  the  resources 
of  the  palette,  but  because  he  had  a  fine  sense  of  the 
beautiful,  and  wonderful  skill  in  grouping  his  figures; 
and  because  all  these,  his  skills,  were  ministered  to 
by  a  knowledge  of  technique  that  has  seldom  been 
surpassed,  if  ever.  But  Perugino  is  more,  even  than 
all  this  would  of  itself  imply.  At  his  best,  he  is  a 
great  painter.  Consider  the  Deposizione  in  the  Gal- 
leria  Pitti,  Florence. 

In  the  center  is  the  body  of  Jesus,  resting  on  a 
stone,  and  sustained  on  the  left  hand  by  Joseph  of 
Arimathaea,  who,  kneeling  on  one  knee,  faces  the 
beholder;  near  Joseph  is  St.  John  and  a  woman 
with  joined  palms  raised.  On  the  right,  Nicodcmus 
holds  the  edge  of  the  shroud.  Behind  the  Christ 
are  three  figures  kneeling ;  the  Virgin  in  the  middle 
of  this  group  supports  one  of  her  Son's  arms,  while 
Magdalene,  at  her  side,  upholds  the  head,  and  the 
third  woman  prays.     Another  woman,  standing 

65 


behind  the  Madonna  and  earnestly  gazing  on  the 
body  of  the  Saviour,  stretches  forth  her  arms,  with 
extended  palms,  in  an  attitude  full  of  pity.  In  the 
background  on  the  right  are  three  men,  one  of  whom 
holds  on  his  palm  and  is  showing  to  the  others  the 
nails  that  have  pierced  the  members  of  the  Gticified. 

So  much  for  general  description  of  the  painting; 
let  us  now  proceed  to  its  esthetical  analysis.  We 
admire  this  composition  because  it  represents  a  scene 
full  of  life  and  reality. 

The  minds,  if  not  the  gaze,  of  all  the  persons 
in  the  picture  converge  on  the  Saviour.  The 
Madonna,  John  and  the  women  are  looking  at  him. 
Joseph  and  the  men  forming  the  group  on  the  right 
are  thinking  of  him.  Thus,  and  only  thus,  can  the 
composition  of  a  picture  be  made  synthetical,  since 
it  is  not  enough  for  two  persons  to  be  photographed 
close  to  each  other  or  even  arm  in  arm ;  if  both  are 
merely  looking  at  the  photographer,  they  will  never 
form  a  scene  nor  even  a  group.  The  material  bond 
is  of  small  importance  when  we  fail  to  realize  the 
corresponding  expression,  the  ideal  connection,  which 
in  this  picture  is  so  evident*  The  better  to  appre- 
ciate this  masterpiece,  observe  how  diversely,  but 
always  how  sincerely,  the  feeling  of  pity  is  expressed 
by  the  several  figures.  Passionate  in  the  Madonna ; 
sorrrowful,  yet  tinged  with  feminine  gentleness  in 
the  Magdalene;  blended  with  manly  firmness  in 

66 


Joseph ;  subdued  in  Nicodemus,  who  is  busied  with  Sfncerlts  in 
cares  for  the  entombment ;  anxious  in  John  and  the 
woman  close  to  him ;  mixed  with  painful  wonder  in 
the  woman  standing  behind  the  Madonna;  and 
piously  submissive  in  the  woman  kneeling  with 
hands  folded* 

Turning  now  to  the  group  of  three  men  on  the 
right,  we  see  one  of  them  pointing  out  to  the  others 
two  of  the  nails  he  holds  on  his  palm.  One  of  the 
listeners  raises  his  clinched  hands  close  to  his  face 
with  a  gesture  of  mingled  pity  and  grief ;  while  the 
other  man  looks  on  with  sorrowful  astonishment. 
A  brief  explanation  will  show  the  importance  of  this 
group. 

One  of  the  first  requisites  for  a  work  of  paint- 
ing or  sculpture  is  definiteness  and  clearness  of 
meaning ;  we  cannot  admire  when  the  composition 
is  unintelligible  to  us*  This  clearness  is  easier  to 
obtain  in  literary  works,  because  the  spoken  or 
written  word  traverses  a  series  of  moments  resulting 
in  one  event ;  while  the  Fine  Arts  give  us  only  one 
of  those  moments. 

Masaccio,  Fra  Filippo  Lippi,  Benozzo,  Gozzili, 
and  other  clever  artists  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
resorted  to  a  childishly,  simple  device  to  make  clear 
the  meaning  of  their  compositions;  in  the  same 
picture  they  give  two  or  three  successive  phases  of 
one  act*    In  the  Tributo  della  Moneta,  a  fresco 

67 


SincerttB  in  painted  by  Masaccio  in  the  Church  del  Carmine,  in 
*  Florence,  we  see  in  the  centre  the  Apostles  sur- 
rounding the  Saviour,  who,  being  asked  by  the  Cen- 
turion to  pay  the  tribute  money,  sends  Peter  *  to  cast 
an  hook  and  take  up  the  fish  that  first  cometh  up,* 
for  in  the  fishes  mouth  the  money  would  be  found. 
The  Apostles  are  filled  with  wonder  and  amaze- 
ment. On  the  left  hand  is  shown  Peter  at  the  sea- 
shore, stooping  over  the  fish  and  taking  the  coin  out 
of  its  mouth;  on  the  right  is  Peter  paying  the  money 
to  the  Centurion. 

This  device  may  admit  of  excuse  in  the  case  of 
Masaccio  (bom  1402,  died  J428),  a  clever  and  prom- 
ising artist,  who  had  not  time  in  so  short  a  life  to 
give  the  full  measure  of  his  power ;  but  the  same 
leniency  is  not  to  be  extended  to  Perugino,  who  had 
the  advantage  of  living  longer  and  in  a  more 
•  enlightened  epoch.  The  technique  of  painting  had 
greatly  advanced  in  the  year  J  495,  when  Perugino 
painted  this  Deposizione. 

In  putting  this  picture  on  canvas,  it  was  essen- 
tial that  Perugino  should  select  some  one  principal 
moment  in  the  tragedy.  This  central  group  does 
not,  in  fact,  fix  that  supreme  moment  on  canvas  and 
upon  the  attention  of  the  beholder.  If,  however,  the 
painter,  without  violating  the  harmony  and  integrity 
of  his  concept,  can  introduce  into  the  same  some- 
thing which  will  suggest  some  prior  or  succeeding 

68 


moment  in  the  same  drama,  thus  synthesizing  the  Stncerits  In 
whole  event,  he  has  added  to  the  value  of  his  telling 
of  the  story. 

Perugino  has  attempted  to  attain  this  in  the  epi- 
sode of  the  man  pointing  to  the  nails.  It  has  been 
objected  that  Mt  was  an  indecency  to  gloat  over 
I  those  Crucifixion  nails  at  such  a  time,  and  it  is  an 
anachronism  to  have  men  of  the  year  A.D.  33, 
treasuring  as  sacred  relics  those  spikes.  That  sort 
of  thing  did  not  come  in  till  long  centuries  after/ 
Answer  may  be  made  that  such  a  treasuring  of  the 
nails  as  relics  would  not  have  been  an  anachronism 
in  the  thought  of  the  age  for  which  Perugino  painted. 
Moreover,  there  is  nothing  in  the  picture  to  indicate 
gloating  over  the  nails,  nor  a  thought  of  treasuring 
them  as  relics*  Rather  does  the  thought  seem  to  be, 
*  See,  here  are  the  cruel  spikes  with  which  they 
pierced  the  Holy  One/ 

The  background  of  the  Deposizione  is  occupied 
by  a  valley  in  the  shadow,  gloomy  as  befitted  the 
sadness  of  the  scene  in  the  first  plane,  and  the  fact  that 
it  was  already  eventide  when  Joseph  of  Arimathaea 
obtained  leave  to  remove  the  body  of  Jesus  from  the 
cross.  In  the  distance,  the  vale  expands  into  a  light- 
some, sunny  landscape.  This  sunny  landscape  on 
the  far-off  horizon  is  not  necessarily  an  insincerity 
or  contradiction  of  the  evangelists'  account  of  the 
Crucifixion.    That  Perugino  intended  to  indicate 

69 


Stncetitis  in  ^j^^t  the  sun  was  down,  is  evident  from  the  shadow 
*  of  darkness  in  the  valley^  But  he  is  mindful  that 
though  a  Deposizione  should  represent  the  body  of  a 
man  destined  for  the  grave,  the  painter  should  at  the 
same  time  make  us  see  in  it  the  germ  of  the  near 
and  supernatural  resurrection  of  a  God.  This  far- 
distant  glory,  a  *  light  that  never  was  on  land  or  sea,' 
is  not  actual.  It  but  symbolizes  the  blissful  after- 
math of  redemption,  resurrection  and  endless  joy 
succeeding  the  passion  of  death. 

In  this  picture  everything  has  its  architectonic 
reason,  every  incident  is  charged  with  purpose,  and 
the  artist  who  could  conceive  and  realize  such  an 
ideal  must  have  been  truly  great ;  nothing  equal  to 
this  ever  again  came  from  the  hand  of  Perugino. 

Consider  further,  the  *  Portrait  of  a  Lady,' 
painted  by  Andrea  del  Sarto,  in  the  Uffizi  gallery  at 
Florence.  What  could  be  more  genial?  What 
splendid  blacks,  and  whites,  and  grays  in  his  *  Dis- 
pute About  the  Trinity,'  in  the  Pitti  gallery.  But  go 
to  the  Church  of  the  Annunziata,  and,  in  the  frescoes 
of  the  Story  of  Saint  Benizzi  and  the  Adoration  of 
the  Magi,  observe  the  draperies  on  the  figures. 
Then  go  to  the  Chiostro  dello  Scalzo  and  observe 
how,  in  the  scene  of  *  Zacharias  in  the  Temple,'  the 
bystanders  dare  not  move  for  fear  of  disturbing  their 
robes.  Then,  too,  what  a  sad  spectacle  is  his 
'Assumption.'    Instead  of  raising  the  soul  of  the 

70 


beholder  toward  heaven,  as  does  Titian's  *Assump-  S^wcerltB  in 
tion/  Andrea  only  speaks  of  tailor's  stuffs.     By  sac- 
rificing significance  to  pose  and  tissues,  he    has 
become  insincere. 

Many  painters  in  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries  tried  their  skill  in  the  treatment  of  the  Last 
Supper.  Several  examples  of  different  schools  and 
different  epochs  may  be  selected  to  exemplify  what 
is  meant  by  Sincerity  in  Art. 

In  the  little  refectory  of  the  Convento  di  San 
Marco  is  still  to  be  seen  a  fresco  by  Ghirlandaio, 
representing  the  Last  Supper  or  Cenacolo.  A  skilled 
draughtsman  and  a  clever  painter  was  Ghirlandaio, 
and  he  well  knew  how  to  group  his  figures  and 
compose  a  picture;  but  his  prosaic  temperament  and 
his  joyous  humor  scarcely  qualified  him  for  a  flight 
of  fantasy  or  for  profound  meditation.  There  was 
in  him  but  little  of  the  poet. 

On  getting  his  order  for  a  Cenacolo,  the  honest 
Florentine  set  at  work  with  all  the  placid  industry 
which  characterized  him.  The  Apostles  he  shows, 
sitting  at  three  sides  of  a  table,  are  good  folk,  every 
one ;  even  Judas,  who  is  distinguished  from  the  rest 
only  by  absence  of  the  nimbus  round  his  head,  and 
by  the  place  which  he  occupies  all  alone  on  the 
fourth  side  of  the  table,  opposite  to  John,  who  reclines 
his  head  on  the  Lord's  shoulder.  Ghirlandaio,  in 
the  simplicity  of  his  nai^e  realism,  has  scattered  over 


Sincerity  in  the  table  some  ripe  cherries,  and  represents  a  group 
*  of  honest  men  partaking  of  a  frugal  meal ;  but  he 
has  not  painted  the  Last  Supper.  Though  he  is 
said  to  have  been  a  very  truthful  man,  and  though 
he  never  tries  to  cheat  us  into  believing  him  any- 
thing but  what  he  really  is,  we  are  constrained  to 
say  that  though  he  has  good  color,  good  portraits, 
the  obvious  everywhere,  nevertheless  as  an  artist  he 
is  not  sincere,  not  faithful,  that  is,  in  the  treatment 
of  his  subject,  for  he  never  suggests  the  significant. 

Even  more  deficient  was  the  painter — probably 
of  Perugino^s  school — who  has  left  us  the  Cenacolo 
in  the  ancient  Monastery  of  Foligno  in  Florence. 
Here  Judas  is  better  rendered,  because  with  some 
betokening  of  his  depraved  nature ;  but  the  figures 
of  the  other  Apostles  are  worse  than  in  Ghirlandaio's 
picture.  Only  one  of  them,  sitting  beside  the  Lord 
and  grasping  a  knife,  has  something  like  a  flash  of 
pride  or  wrath  in  his  eye ;  two  others,  on  John's  left, 
are  meant  to  scowl  at  Judas,  but  they  are  not  so 
incensed  as  to  forget  to  eat  their  dinner ;  another  is 
pouring  out  wine;  while  still  others  are  chatting 
quietly  about  their  private  concerns ;  finally,  one 
who  is  doing  nothing,  seems  to  be  waiting  patiently 
for  permission  to  rise  from  the  board. 

This  Cenacolo  is  generally  admired,  and  con- 
sidered superior  to  Ghirlandaio's.  All  the  figures  in 
it  are  distinguished  by  that  beauty  of  feature  and 

72 


form  which  passed  from  Pcrugino  to  Raphael.     To  sincerftg  in 
this  last    master  this  fresco   has   sometimes  been 
attributed,  erroneously,  though  nowadays  no  one 
believes  Sanzio  to  have  painted  this  graceful  but 
meaningless  and  insincere  Cenacolo^ 

Turn  now  to  the  ample  canvas  which  Paolo 
Veronese  finished,  in  1572,  and  now  found  in  the 
Academia  Belle  Arti  in  Venice.  How  could  this 
gifted  artist,  this  boisterous  reveler,  this  lover  of  pomp 
and  magnificence,  this  painter  who  succeeded  by  his 
magic  in  dazzling  the  observer  so  utterly  that  all  his 
blunders  in  drawing  and  all  his  anachronisms  fail  to 
offend — how  could  he  understand  the  Lord's  Last 
Supper? 

For  him  the  Cenacolo  is  a  sumptuous  ban- 
quet in  a  noble  palace,  under  three  gorgeously  orna- 
mented arches,  across  which  we  enjoy  the  view  of 
a  splendid  city  with  pompous  monuments.  Jesus 
is  a  young  and  fashionable  Venetian  nobleman ;  the 
Apostles  are  gaudy  patricians ;  and  as  if  this  were 
not  enough,  Veronese  has  filled  his  picture  with  a 
number  of  people  coming  and  going,  ascending  and 
descending  the  grand  flight  of  stairs — soldiers,  a 
Moor,  several  turbaned  Turks,  a  cup-bearer  in  gay 
livery,  a  buffoon  in  motley  attire,  a  dwarf  standing 
in  front  of  a  little  girl ;  lastly,  a  cat  and  two  dogs 
crouching  under  the  table.  Altogether,  this  is 
decidedly  beautiful  to  look  at ;  the  painting  ranks 

73 


StnccrttB  in  high  among  the  masterpieces  of  the  Veronese,  and 
*  may  in  a  certain  sense  be  considered  sincere,  the 
painter  having  honestly  rendered  what  he  really  felt. 
The  question  still  remains, whether  he  really  felt  this 
subject  as  it  ought  to  have  been  felt»  And  the 
answer  clearly  is,  No ;  and  hence  the  decision  must 
be  against  the  artistic  sincerity  of  the  painting. 

If  we  turn  from  the  sumptuous  Venetian  ban- 
quet back  to  humbler  scenes  and  more  pious  artists, 
the  difference  will  be  startling. 

In  all  that  is  spiritual,  truth  comes  from  God, 
or  from  those  spirits  who  have  been  the  friends  of 
God.  Of  such  was  that  simple-minded,  god-fearing 
Dominican  friar  Giovanni  da  Fiesole,  who  adorned 
the  walls  of  his  convent  of  St.  Mark,  in  Flor- 
ence, with  many  a  devout  painting,  one  of  them  a 
Cenacolo. 

No  banquet  is  this,  but  a  simple  repast  in  a  room 
of  bare  walls  with  a  rude  table,  round  which  some  of 
the  Apostles  reverently  stand,  while  others,  with  even 
greater  reverence,  kneel  and  receive  from  the  Lord^s 
hand  the  blessed  bread,  and  hearken  to  the  sacra- 
mental words,  *  Take,  eat.  This  is  my  body.'  The 
pious  Dominican,  adhering  strictly  to  the  text  of  St. 
Luke,  gives  to  the  scene  all  its  mystic  significance ; 
it  is  the  institution  of  the  Eucharist.  The  art- 
technique  is  plainly  inferior  to  that  in  Veronese's 
picture,  painted  some  J 30  years  later;  moreover,  the 

74 


J  w, 


*ii 


Angel- 
tainty 

wc 

-I 


Ccnacolo  h  ;K>t  considered  t    be   r 
ico*s  boif  V  Tks;  but  it  ^l 
of  puf^i^c.  such  sacramenui 
musr  ^..  Klaim  it  superior  to  itt  fip 
Ifi   4^i:cre   religious   feeling  m*"^ 
^'AspttAtioii  and  renderui^, 

Gilfittd  with  higher  jtenius  md  iiu%tt 

i\  Leonardo  da  V^ 
undertook,  towa  .a 

painting  of  the  L^>-        .'per  ,         !K 

convent  of  Santa  M^"^^  Jielle  Grazia.  Neither  as 
an  everyday  meal  ri  lu^^^t.  i^ood  peopie,  nor  as  the 
mystic  institution  ot  tm  Eucharist,  did  L«Ofurdo 
conceive  his  subject,  bat  it  a  momentous  dmm*  in 
which  deep  feelinf  aM  Ikwy  passions  are  iHrMwi  ^ 

the  hearts  of  aU  %(,Q,^a}  tenJ  3d37^' 

Jesus,   sorrowing  -  .^  a.    Icm*    ' 

treason  that  is  to  Bw>v  8«5  odieno^jr  *d 
of  you   which  eateth 
I  Ml  gntures  are  most  Tlie  left  h^ 

ffeHIji-  :ided,  the  xpward,   th 

tipfe    o^iucnsas    the    boaru,    me    muscles 
HiMt  lti»  iict  at  a  thing  that  is  to  be 
wllfk  mNnimiim  ^  the  Hght  hand,  also  w^ 
tVftwMt  N»ls  wiitih  wrist  and   ' 
board;  llif;  ftim  lovatd  the  tabk  ash. 
&om  the  ifMudbH^ft  hi»i  the  oltar  ft 
touch  the  boftrd,  M  are  sMxh^  mKtet 


SincentY  tn 
Srt. 


Cenacolo  is  not  considered  to  be  one  of  Fra  Angel-  SlnceritB  in 
ico's  best  works ;  but  it  glows  with  such  certainty 
of  purpose,  such  sacramental  earnestness,  that  we 
must  proclaim  it  superior  to  its  more  brilliant  rival 
in  sincere  religious  feeling  and  perfect  fitness  of 
inspiration  and  rendering. 

Gifted  with  higher  genius  and  larger  imagina- 
tion, Leonardo  da  Vinci,  that  prince  of  Italian  paint- 
ers, undertook,  toward  the  year  1497,  to  adorn  with 
a  painting  of  the  Last  Supper  the  refectory  of  the 
convent  of  Santa  Maria  delle  Grazia.  Neither  as 
an  everyday  meal  of  quiet,  good  people,  nor  as  the 
mystic  institution  of  the  Eucharist,  did  Leonardo 
conceive  his  subject,  but  as  a  momentous  drama  in 
which  deep  feeling  and  fiery  passions  are  stirred  in 
the  hearts  of  all  the  actors. 

Jesus,  sorrowing  but  resigned,  foretells  the 
treason  that  is  to  be :  *  Verily  say  I  unto  you,  one 
of  you  which  eateth  with  me  shall  betray  me/ 
His  gestures  are  most  apt.  The  left  hand,  with 
fingers  expanded,  the  palm  upward,  the  finger- 
tips touching  the  board,  the  muscles  relaxed, 
states  the  fact  as  a  thing  that  is  to  be  received 
with  submission ;  the  right  hand,  also  with  fingers 
expanded,  rests  with  wrist  and  thumb  upon  the 
board,  the  palm  toward  the  table  and  hence  away 
from  the  speaker's  face;  the  other  fingers  do  not 
touch  the  board,  but  are  slightly  raised ;  this  attitude 

75 


Sincerity  in  of  the  right  hand^  by  its  averted  palm,  expresses 

*  the  aversion  of  the   Saviour  for  the  treason,  but 

it  is  an  aversion  which  is  mingled  with  pity  for 

the  traitor,  else  the  muscles  of  that  hand  would  be 

tense* 

The  action  of  the  painting  shows  the  instant 
effect  of  the  Saviour^s  words.  Turning  from  the 
Central  Figure  toward  the  left — that  is,  to  the  right 
of  the  Lord — we  have  first,  John,  the  beloved  dis- 
ciple, quite  overcome  with  painful  emotion;  all 
muscles  relaxed,  his  figure  drooping,  his  head  falling 
to  the  right,  as  in  a  half-swoon,  his  two  hands  joined 
resting  on  the  board  with  fingers  interlaced ;  a  pic- 
ture of  utter  dejection. 

Next  to  John  is  the  traitor,  dwarfish,  ill-favored 
of  visage,  with  beetling  brows,  thick  black  hain 
The  announcement  has  given  him  a  shock  and 
caused  him  to  recoil  as  far  as  his  proximity  to  his 
neighbor,  Simon  Peter,  allows.  With  his  right 
hand  he  grasps  tightly  the  money-bag;  with  his 
left,  he  touches  the  folded  hands  of  the  beloved  dis- 
ciple* What  means  that  reaching  out  to  John  ?  Has 
the  Iscariot  a  velleity  of  repentance  ?  The  expres- 
sion of  that  hand  is  no  more  than  a  velleity ;  per- 
haps the  action  is  simply  reflex  and  unconscious ; 
there  is  no  muscle  in  it,  no  will*  But  the  right  hand 
that  clutches  the  purse  ! 

Next  after  Judas  we  sec  Peter.    Peter  leans 

76 


over  toward  the  beloved  disciple^  and  in  doing  so  s^nceritg  in 

crowds  the  form  of  Judas  against  the  table-edge. 

Peter  has  a  weighty  question  to  ask,  and  wants  it 

answered  n(yw;  so  he  doesn't  mind  if  he  is  rude  to 

the  little  ill-favored  Iscariot.     He  brings  his  strong, 

resolute  visage  alongside  the  ear  of  the  grief-stricken 

John,  and,  summoning  him  to  attention  by  a  prod 

with  the  forefinger  of  his  left  hand,  while  the  right 

grasps  a  knife,  he  asks  in  a  whisper  whether  any 

name  has  been  mentioned;  the  knife  is  pointed  away 

from  any  probable  object  of  Peter's  suspicions.  Iterrit 

Peter  chooses  to  keep  to  himself  the  secret  of  the 

knife ;  *  but  do,  John,  learn  the  name  of  the  traitor/ 

Next  to  Peter  is  his  brother  Andrew;  the 
expression  of  his  visage,  the  gesture  of  his  uplifted 
hands  with  palms  averse  and  fingers  outstretched, 
tell  of  his  horror  on  hearing  of  the  perfidy.  So  far, 
the  action  of  all  the  figures,  except  Andrew's  and 
John's,  express  a  two-fold  emotion  or  state  of  mind, 
but  in  John  and  Andrew  one  emotion  only. 

Andrew's  next  neighbor,  James  the  Younger, 
while  his  gaze  is  fixed  intently  on  the  Lord,  stretches 
out,  behind  Andrew,  his  left  arm  and  rests  the  hand 
on  the  shoulder  of  Peter ;  but  he  is  thinking  not  of 
Peter,  but  of  what  the  Lord  may  say  next.  That 
hand  on  Peter's  shoulder  simply  rests  there ;  it  is  not 
calling  Peter  away  from  his  questioning  of  John ;  it 
does  not  clutch  Peter's  sleeve ;  it  does  not  press  on 

77 


SlncerttB  in  Peter's  shoulder*  James  will  have  a  question  to  ask 
*  of  Peter  as  soon  as  the  whispered  conversation  with 
John  is  over. 

Last  on  that  side  of  the  board  is  Bartholomew, 
a  noble  figure  of  a  man ;  he  stands  at  the  table-end, 
leaning  on  it  with  both  hands,  and  listening  eagerly 
to  catch  any  further  word  the  Lord  may  utter* 

Returning  now  to  the  centre,  the  figure  next  to 
the  Lord  is  James  the  Elder.  His  action  and  face 
expression,  or  rather  facial  inexpression,  betray 
amazement,  not  horror,  as  in  Andrew,  whose  hands 
uplifted  to  one  level  with  palms  averse,  speak  of 
detestation  of  the  villainy.  But  James  the  Elder,  is 
simply  amazed,  dumbfounded ;  he  knows  not  what 
to  think  of  it  all.  The  gestures  of  his  two  hands 
are  at  odds ;  so  are  his  thoughts.  He  is  not  horror- 
stricken,  else  the  palms  of  his  hands  would  be  turned 
outward  as  though  to  ward  off  the  horror,  and  the 
two  hands  would  be  held  at  one  level,  as  aimed  at 
one  object  of  detestation.  James  presents  a  fine 
contrast  to  Peter. 

See  the  painfully  anxious  face  of  Thomas, 
next  neighbor  to  James  the  Elder,  behind  whose 
back  he  bends  over  toward  the  Lord;  his  face  as 
pale  as  a  corpse's,  his  features  sharpened  by  the 
fear  that  maybe  he,  he  himself,  is  the  one  that 
will  betray  his  Lord.  Do  not  the  hairs  of  his  head 
stand  erect  ?    Poor  Thomas's  emotion  is,  doubtless, 

78 


the  most  poignant  of  all;  he,  perhaps,  is  predestinated  Sincetits  in 
to  be  the  one  to  commit  the  sin  that  shall  be  forgiven 
neither  in  this  world  nor  in  the  next.  Can  we  mis- 
interpret the  significance  of  those  worn  features  and 
of  that  uplifted  forefinger ;  does  not  the  action  of  this 
figure  ask  more  eloquently  than  would  words  :  *Is  it 
I,  Lord?' 

Philip  has  risen  to  his  feet,  and  with  hands 
'pressed  to  his  heart,  protests  his  fidelity  to  the  Master 
unto  death. 

Matthew,  standing  also,  with  face  and  figure 
.turned  toward  Simeon,  who  sits  at  the  table-end,  is 
assuring  Simeon  that  those  very  words,  *  One  of 
you  shall  betray  me,*  were  spoken  by  the  Lord ;  that 
there  is  no  mistake  about  it*  This  is  finely  expressed 
by  the  gesture  of  Matthew :  *  Didst  thou  not  hear  ?  * 

But  Simeon,  with  both  hands  held  forth,  palms 
[upward,  arms  bent  at  elbow,  maintains  that  the 
thing  cannot  be  so ;  *  it  is  plainly  impossible/ 

Between  these  two  sits  Thaddeus.  Thaddeus 
has  no  doubt  about  the  terrible  announcement. 
Simeon  says,  'impossible,  you  misunderstood/  *No 
misunderstanding,*  says  Matthew;  *the  Lord  spake 
these  very  words.  One  of  you  shall  betray  me.* 
*  Yes,  yes,*  chimes  in  Thaddeus,  as  he  brings  down 
upon  the  palm  of  his  left  hand  the  outspread  right 
with  thumb  directed  toward  some  one  sitting  at  board 
with  them.     *And  I  know  who  the  traitor  is ;  1*11 

79 


SincerftTs  in  name  no  name,  but  it  is  the  fellow  back  there,  our 
*  bursar/ 

Great  as  is  the  difference  between  this  and 
Beato  Angelico's  masterpiece,  yet  in  sincerity  they 
are  equal.  The  genial  painter,  as  well  as  the 
humble  Dominican,  has  truthfully  painted  in  strict 
accordance  with  his  feeling  for  the  subject.  Each 
has  painted  the  scene  as  it  appealed  to  his  own 
nature.  Devout  and  mystical  the  one,  powerful  and 
passionate  the  other.  Each  has  been  faithful  to  his 
sense  for  the  significant,  and  being  natural,  he  has 
been  sincere;  each  a  spirit  of  flame,  not  only 
illumined  but  luminous,  shines  by  his  own  light ; 
each,  by  being  true  to  himself,  has  been  true  to 
his  art. 

The  conclusion  is  evident:  whoever  purposes 
to  ape  another  artist,  and  to  imitate  a  Raphael  or  a 
Rembrandt,  a  Velasquez  or  a  Millet,  or  to  pattern 
after  a  certain  *  School '  of  Art  and  to  be  classed  as 
an  Impressionist,  or  as  one  of  the  Preraphaelites,  or  of 
the  Paris,  or  Munich,  or  Glasgow  schools,  will  be 
insincere  in  his  art.  None  of  the  great  painters 
were  imitators ;  or,  if  sometimes  they  were,  just  so 
far  did  they  fall  below  their  own  greatness,  their  own 
sincerity* 

Beauty  is  multiform ;  each  artist  should  select 
the  expression  which  best  befits  his  temperament  and 
his  artistic  powers,  since  that  art  alone  can  be  sincere 

80 


which  IS  the  reflection  of  the  artist's  inmost  self,  his  Sincerity  in 

t  art. 

souL 

The  more  the  artist  depends  for  style  upon  his 

own  individuality,  the  more  he  depends  for  inspiration 

upon  the  genius  of  his  own  age ;  so  much  the  more 

widely  will  he  differ  from  those  who  have  only 

become  models,  because  they  excelled  in  painting 

the  significant  in  their  own   environment   and  as 

revealed  in  their  own  personality* 

Those  who  are  born  with  visions  should  paint 

visions,  but  luminously ;  those  who  are  born  robust 

should  paint  robustly,  but  temperately ;  *Iet  those 

who  would  soar  keep  their  wings,  the  others 

their  feet;*  each  mindful  that  no  one 

can  see  except  by  his  own  lamp; 

and,  though  the  goal  may  not 

always  be  reached,  it  may  at 

least  always  be  striven  for. 


8J 


UNITY  IN  ART 


AN  is  essentially  con- 
structive, instrumentally 
analytic.  The  difference 
between  the  constructive 
and  the  analytic  is  the  dif- 
ference between  regarding 
a  thing  from  the  totality- 
aspect,  the  constituent  ele- 
ments of  the  thing  existing 
only  as  parts,  and  receiving 
meaning  only  through  the  whole;  and  the  way 
of  regarding  a  thing  as  a  group  of  elements,  the 
total  existing  to  be  analyzed,  the  element  only 
being  real. 

These  opposing  points  of  view  are  the  opposing 
attitudes  of  the  artist  and  the  scientist.  By  Artist, 
meaning  the  poet  and  novelest,  as  well  as  the  painter 
and  sculptor,  since  all  of  these  contribute  to  the 
receptive  and  appreciative  personality,  all  deal  with 


85 


TUnit^  in  phenomena  in  a  creative  way,  aiming  to  give  totality- 
impressions. 

The  work  of  the  artist  is  twofold.  It  is 
aesthetic,  it  is  also  ethical*  His  aesthetic  aim  is  to 
set  the  thing  or  event  before  the  beholder  in  such  a 
way  that  the  effect  which  is  produced  upon  himself 
shall  be  passed  over  to  the  observer.  It  is,  briefly, 
to  convey  the  total  unitary  impression,  fraught  with 
his  own  personality,  and  make  it  significant  for  the 
observer.  The  same  is  true  of  the  ethical  activity ; 
its  aim  is  so  to  present  the  thing  or  event,  that  it 
shall  be  effective  in  directing  or  transforming  the 
activity  of  the  subject  to  whom  it  is  addressed. 

Not  truth  but  power  is  at  the  heart  of  the 
artist's  effort.  Truth  must  be  there,  but  it  is  the 
truth  of  impression,  not  truth  of  description.  The 
office  of  the  artist  is  to  make  an  ideal  order  of 
existences  or  values,  in  the  service  of  which  he 
dissolves  the  continuity  of  actual  experience,  and 
selects  from  its  elements  those  which  are  parts 
of  the  ideal  order  and  which  will  be  factors  in 
the  production  of  his  desired  impression.  To  this 
end  he  employs — ^Perspective  and  Unity.  By  Per- 
spective meaning,  the  emphasis  of  the  significant 
and  suppression  of  insignificant  elements. 

What  is  intended  by  Unity  is  more  difficult  of 
definition,  both  because  the  thing  itself  is  so  ele- 
mental and  spiritual  and  because  of  the  confusion  so 

86 


often  made  between  the  *  unity  *  and  *  the  unities '  of  "Clw^tB  in 

...  3tt« 

a  composition. 

*  The  master  of  those  who  know  *  was  not  too 
great  a  name  for  the  putative  author  of  the  doctrine 
of  *the  unities/  Though  in  truth  Aristotle  was 
chiefly  concerned  with  that  internal  unity  which  he 
claims  for  Tragedy  in  common  with  every  other 
work  of  art.'  Whereof  this  unity  consists,  and 
wherein  it  differs  from  'the  unities/  may  be  more 
clearly  understood  by  a  brief  consideration  of  what 
has  been  termed  the  *  English  pseudo-classic  period  of 
poetry.' 

The  pseudo-classic  period  of  English  poetry  has 
been  called  the  age  of  the  supremacy  of  Alexander 
Pope,  but  it  began  before  Pope  was  bom.  Dryden, 
for  example,  in  the  prologue  of  his  tragi-comedy. 
Secret  Love,  professed  allegiance  to  those  ancient 
law-givers  of  the  poetic  art,  Aristotle,  Horace,  Quin- 
tilian,  Longinus  and  their  modem  Gallic  interpreter, 
Boileau,  when  he  claims  for  his  work  the  merit  of 
having  been  composed  according  to  the  exactest  rules, 
with  strict  regard  for  *the  unities.' 

Pope,  in  the  Essay  on  Criticism  (J7U),  makes 
a  like  profession  of  reverence  for  the  ancient  mas- 
ters, though  when  he  names  Boileau,  he,  incon- 
sistently reproaches  French  writers  for  their  servility 
in  submitting  to  Boileau's  authority,  while  at  the 

I  Arirt.  On  Poetry,  VIII. ,  4. 

87 


TUnits  in  same  time  he  calls  his  own  countrymen  uncivilized 
*  because  they  will  not  wear  the  yoke ;  on  the  other 
hand,  those  English  poets  who  accept  the  Greco- 
Roman-Gallic  precepts,  are  *  restoring  wit's  funda- 
mental law/  Pope's  Essay  on  Cnticism  did  not 
confirm  the  vogue  of  pseudo-classicism  in  England 
and  give  it  a  reign  of  nearly  a  hundred  years.  It 
was  the  example  he  set  of  rendering  in  scintillating 
verse  the  very  thought  of  his  own  age — ^the  thought 
that  is,  and  the  mind  of  England,  as  revealed  to  him 
in  political  cabals,  literary  cliques,  frivolous  society, 
and  the  varied  circle  of  pseudo-philosophers.  For 
him,  the  poet's  mission  is  to  trick  out  nature  in 
finery  and  to  polish  into  brilliants  the  commonplaces 
of  universal  morality,  the  current  religion  and  the 
received  philosophy  of  life : 

True  wit  is  nature  to  advantage  dressed ; 

What  oft  was  thougfht  but  ne'er  so  well  expressed. 

Admirable,  no  doubt.  Pope  is,  for  he  has  made 
poetical  the  most  humdrum  sentiments,  the  most 
commonplace  passions,  but  they  are  poor  souls  and 
poor  wits  whom  he  can  content;  for  it  is  a  low 
ideal  which  this  poet  proposes  to  himself.  Plato 
classes  such  artists  in  speech  with  pastry  cooks. 
Pope's  brilliant  antithetic  couplets  made  less  artificial 
poetry  seem  dull,  and  the  elder  poets  of  nature  were 
for  a  hundred  years  neglected  and  the  poetic  contem- 
plation of  nature  repressed ;  not  extinguished,  how- 

88 


ever,  cither  in  poet  or  people,  as  was  proved  in  J  730  ^»^tts  in 
by  the   success   of   Thomson^s   SeasonSf  with  its 
manly  sentiment  and  its  native  vigor. 

Pope  himself,  in  the  Essay  on  Criticisnif  much 
as  he  prizes  the  Aristotelian  laws  of  poetic  composi- 
tion, recognizes  the  supremacy  of  nature  over  all 
magisterial  precepts.     Nature  is,  he  writes : 

At  once  the  source,  and  end,  and  test  of  art ; 
and  of  this  aphorism  he  had  unexpected  proof. 
Gay*s  Shqjherds*  Week  was  written  at  the  instance 
of  Pope  to  throw  ridicule  on  the  Pastorals  of 
Ambrose  Philips,  by  introducing  scenes  from  actual 
pastoral  and  peasant  life  in  England.  Though  ludi- 
crous, the  scenes  were  felt  to  be  true  to  nature  and 
life,  and  were  received  with  great  favor.  If  ludi- 
crous effect  is  wanted,  we  need  not  seek  beyond 
Pope's  own  PastoralSf  where  on  the  banks  of  *  fair 
Thames  *  Sicilian  muses  sing  and  the  swains  and 
shepherd-lasses  wear  the  homely  English  names, 
Strephon  and  Daphnis  I  This  is  redudio  ad  absur- 
dum  of  classicism. 

But  why  should  an  English  poet  be  required  to 
poetize  by  Grecian  or  by  Gallic  rule?  ^ There  is 
such  a  thing  as  reason  without  syllogisms,*  pleaded 
George  Farquhar;  *  knowledge  without  Aristotle, 
and  there  are  languages  besides  Greek  and  Latin.  .  . 

To  different  towns  there  are  different  ways 

We  (English)  have  the  most  unreasonable  medley 

89 


Tllnltu  in  of  humors  of  any  nation  on  earth We  shall 

*  find  a  Wildair  in  one  comer  and  a  Morose  in 
another ;  hence  the  rules  of  English  comedy  do  not 
lie  in  the  compass  of  Aristotle  or  his  followers,  but 
in  the  pit,  boxes  and  galleries/  And  herein  lay  the 
fundamental  difference  between  French  and  English 
literary  art.  Boileau  and  his  successors  in  France, 
until  the  most  recent  times,  addressed  a  court  circle, 
an  academic  clique,  or  at  most  a  single  capital*  All 
literary  judgment,  all  literary  taste,  emanated  from 
Paris. 

The  English  poet  and  dramatist  addressed  the 
whole  people.  As  long  as  the  taste  for  poetry  in 
England  was  determined  by  the  polite  circle  which 
admired  Pope's  exquisitely  turned  verses  and  his 
sparkling  epigrammatic  style,  the  native  muse  un- 
adorned passed  for  a  rustic  wench,  and  unsophisti- 
cated nature  seemed  mere  barbarism.  In  Pope's 
time  Shakspeare  was  as  distasteful  to  his  country- 
men as  to  the  French,  for  whom,  as  represented  by 
Voltaire,  *  Shakspeare  was  a  buffoon.*  And  it  is 
an  interesting  coincidence  that  Pope's  Rape  of  the 
Lockf  his  masterpiece,  is  for  the  French  critic  and 
historian  of  English  literature,  Hippolyte  Taine,  a 
piece  of  *  harsh,  scornful,  indelicate  buffoonery.' 

In  the  pseudo-classic  age,  poetry  was  indeed  an 
art — it  was  artificial,  and  for  it  Nature  was  an  arti- 
ficial thing.     Her  face  was  rouged  to  make  her  pre- 

90 


sentable  in  polite  society ;  in  its  presence  Nature,  "Clnfts  in 
naked,  was  ashamed,  so  their  poets  showed  them 
'Nature  to  advantage  dressed/  Its  conception  of 
Nature  and  of  Man  was  not  drawn  from  nature  or 
from  man,  but  from  literary  tradition.  The  Gradus 
ad  Pamassutrif  and  the  store  of  poetic  phrases  and 
figures,  were  no  small  part  of  the  poet's  inspiration. 
As  Coleridge  happily  characterizes  some  of  the  most 
ambitious  efforts  of  Pope,  *  the  thoughts  are  prose 
thoughts  translated   into  the   language  of  poetry/ 

The  poets  of  the  pseudo-classic  period  describe 
nature  with  great  richness  of  imagery,  but  their 
imagery  comes  not  from  nature,  being  simply  a 
compound  of  hearsays  derived  from  the  poets  of 
classic  times.  Wordsworth  says  of  Pope's  version 
of  the  celebrated  moonlight  scene  in  the  Iliadf  that 
*  a  blind  man,  in  the  habit  of  attending  accurately  to 
descriptions  casually  dropped  from  the  lips  of  those 
around  him,  might  easily  depict  those  appearances 
with  more  truth/  For  Wordsworth,  it  is  matter  of 
wonder  how  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  Pope's  Utadf 
reciting  those  verses  under  the  cope  of  a  moonlit 
sky,  could  fail  to  notice  their  absurdity. 

The  universe  which  these  poets-by-rule  evolved 
was  doubtless  very  well  ordered.  In  it  *  the  unities ' 
were  sacredly  observed ;  but  it  was  petty  compared 
with  Shakspeare's  universe,  which  was  God's*  No 
one  is  especially  anxious  about  the  preservation  of  *the 

n 


"WnitB  in  unities '  in  GcxI^s  universe,  and,  like  it,  Shakspeare's 
*  appears  a  mighty  maze,  but  is  not  without  a  plan. 
Truly,  for  the  poet,  there  is  a  sublime  unity  in 
nature ;  and  his  profound  sense  of  this  unity  and  of 
his  own  kinship  with  nature,  gives  him  a  passionate 
sympathy  with  the  whole  creation.  He  is  conscious 
of  a  presence  in  nature  that  *  disturbs  him  with  the 
joy  of  elevated  thoughts  * — 

A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 

All  thinkingf  things,  all  objects  of  all  thoug:ht, 

And  rolls  throug^h  all  thingfs. 

The  poet's  vision  is,  therefore,  a  feeling,  a  sym- 
pathy, as  well  as  an  intuition ;  the  heart  has  part  in 
it  equally  with  the  mind,  and  his  work  speaks  both 
to  the  mind  and  the  heart  of  those  whom  he 
addresses.  It  gains  admission  to  mind  and  heart 
primarily  through  sense-impression  of  a  pleasurable 
kind.  The  poet,  painter,  sculptor,  or  musician,  in 
order  that  he  may  produce  such  impressions,  must 
himself  be  in  the  highest  degree  sensitive ;  his  mind 
*  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms  * ;  his  memory  *  a 
dwelling-place  for  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies.' 
Without  such  native  sensibility,  he  may,  indeed,  by 
a  tour  de  force,  produce  a  work  of  art  in  music, 
though  he  be  congenitally  deaf ;  but  after  all,  it  will 
be  artifice,  not  art*  It  is  because  all  art  has  its 
spring  in  fine  sensibility  that  the  artist  is  held  to  be 
by  nature  an  epicurean,  a  virtuoso  of  pleasurable 

92 


ideas  and  sentiments.  Certainly  he  needs  must  be  "^"^tg  in 
a  man  exquisitely  alive  to  all  the  joys  of  sense, 
whether  tranquil  or  intoxicating.  Such  must  be  the 
sensibility  of  the  artist  or  poet  that,  as  SuIIy-Prud- 
homme  finely  says,  *  certain  colors,  certain  lines, 
certain  sounds  shall  affect  him  like  caresses  or  like 
wounds.'  The  poet  must,  with  Wordsworth,  have 
felt  the  *  aching  joys  *  and  the  *  diz^y  raptures '  of 
the  contemplation  of  nature. 

The  reason  why  sensory  experiences  thus 
impress  themselves  upon  the  mind  of  the  poet  is, 
that  for  him  they  are  vocal  and  emblematic.  He 
does  not  delight  in  these  excitations  of  sensibility 
merely  for  their  own  sake ;  on  the  contrary,  like  a 
true  epicurean,  he  enjoys  them  only  so  far  as  they 
respond  to  his  inmost  emotional  and  mental  states^ 
The  flaming  of  the  sunset,  foretelling  the  approach  of 
night,  speaks  to  him  of  heroic  struggles  ending  in 
disappointment ;  the  swiftness  of  the  mountain  tor- 
rent gives  him  a  sense  of  exaltation ;  a  leaden  sky 
depresses  his  spirit ;  that  is,  the  outer  world  of  time 
and  space  speaks  to  him  in  symbols  expressive  of 
man's  invisible  world,  which  outreaches  space  and 
time;  while  he  contemplates  nature, he  hears  ofttimes 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity. 

In  thus  interpreting  as  symbols  the  phenomena 
of  nature,  the  poetic  and  artistic  temperament  simply 
intensifies  into  a  passion  a  gift  which  is  universal ; 

93 


•QinitB  in  for  even  in  the  lowest  grade,  men  are  sufficiently 
*  endowed  wirfi  the  poetic  faculty  to  discern  in  physi- 
cal things  intimations  of  things  spiritual,  and  analo- 
gies with  things  and  states  of  the  soul  of  man* 
Everybody  is  poet  enough  to  call  a  mood  *  gloomy/ 
or  *  cold/  or  *  bleak/  or  *  sunny  * ;  an  outburst  of 
anger  *  fiery/  Were  it  not  for  this  gift,  speech 
would  be  impossible ;  it  would  be  more  difficult  to 
carry  on  the  simplest  conversation  without  metaphor 
or  metonymy  than  to  discourse  in  words  all  one- 
syllabled ;  we  cannot  express  modes  or  states  of  the 
soul  otherwise  than  in  terms  of  sense-impression* 
*  You  have  a  heart  of  stone,*  cries  yokel  Hans ; 

*  and  you  a  pumpkin  for  a  head,'  responds  his  milk- 
maid inamorata.  In  divining  the  analogy  of  sen- 
sory experiences  and  affections  of  the  soul,  these 
rustic  swains  do  for  the  nonce  exercise,  the  poetic 

faculty. 

Sunset  and  evenings  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me ; 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning:  of  the  bar 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

sings  a  dying  seer;  but  we  need  no  study  to  see  that 
the  *  sunset  *  is  no  literal  sunset,  nor  the  *  evening 
star  *  a  real  star,  nor  the  *  call  *  a  vocal  call,  nor  the 

*  sea  *  a  sea ;  these  are  all  sense-impressions  elabo- 
rated in  the  poet's  mind  into  symbols  of  things 
entirely  spiritual. 

94 


This  faculty,  wc  have  said,  is  possessed  by  all,  ^"^tfi  in 
but  it  is  possessed  in  a  high  degree  only  by  the  artist. 
To  Wordsworth,  in  the  time  of  his  hale,  manly 
I  vigor,  nature  was  *all-in-all*;  the  sounding  cataract 
haunted  him  *Iike  a  passion^ ;  the  imposing  spectacle 
of  creation  was  to  him 

An  appetite ;  a  feelingf  and  a  love 
That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm 
By  thought  supplied. 

But  as  physical  strength  declined,  he  notes  in  him- 
self an  exaltation,  a  purification  of  sensibility,  and 
he  often  is  conscious  of  a  presence  that  pervades  all 
things.  He  is  still  a  lover  of  nature  for  herself,  but 
he  is  more,  .perceiving  in 

All  the  mighty  world 

Of  eye  and  ear,  both  luhat  they  half  create 

(And  ivfutt  perceive:* 

Only  the  poet  can  interpret  the  spiritual  mean- 
ings of  the  universe  of  things;  he  alone  has  the 
second-sight.  But  one  need  not  be  a  poet  to  see  and 
feel  how  true  the  interpretation  is ;  let  it  be  presented 
in  the  poet's  verse,  and  the  most  prosaic  mind  will 
recognize  its  truth. 

To  illustrate :  Suppose  a  bark  is  leaving  port  on 
a  long  voyage.  Spectators  ashore  observe  the  prep- 
arations for  departure;  the  last  farewells,  the  spread- 
ing of  the  sails,  the  vanishing  from  view;  and  each 
spectator  is  thinking  of  the  fortunes  of  that  ship, 

95 


■mnttis  in  [^er  crew,  and  her  cargo*  One,  a  man  of  the 
'  common  mould,  a  shopkeeper,  will  carry  with 
him  from  the  scene  a  few  impressions  of  sight  and 
hearing,  and  will  perhaps  think  of  the  dangers  the 
ship  will  encounter  in  turning  Cape  Horn.  If  asked 
to  relate  the  incidents  of  the  departure,  he  will  not 
be  able  to  state  a  single  one  proper  to  that  vessel's 
leaving  port,  to  distinguish  it  from  any  one  of  a 
thousand  like  occurrences. 

Another  spectator  is  interested  in  the  science 
of  political  economy  and  commercial  exchanges; 
he  will  have  much  the  same  sensible  impressions 
recorded  in  his  memory;  but  he  will  probably  have 
made  some  conjecture  as  to  the  ship's  tonnage, 
value  of  the  cargo,  risks,  profits,  and  the  like. 
Another  is  a  literary  realist,  and  he  will  have  noted 
accurately  every  movement  of  the  vessel  and  the 
crew,  every  sight  and  sound,  and  when  all  is  over, 
will  be  able  to  describe  the  scene  vividly  and  with 
a  particularity  sufficient  to  individualize  it  among  a 
thousand  scenes  of  the  same  kind. 

A  poet,  too,  is  there,  and  sees  and  hears  just 
what  those  others  hear  and  see;  but  his  contem- 
plation goes  out  beyond  the  bounds  of  that  harbor 
and  that  hour.  He  sees  the  bark  favored  by  sum- 
mer breezes  as  she  sets  out  on  her  voyage ;  but  he 
sees  also  the  same  bark  coming  back  to  port  after 
many  months. 

96 


How  like  the  younker  or  a  prodigfal 

The  scarfed  bark  puts  from  her  native  bay, 

Hogfgf'd  and  embraced  by  the  strumpet  wind. 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  she  return 
With  over-weather'd  ribs  and  ragfgfed  sails, 
Lean,  rent  and  beggar'd  by  the  strumpet  wind. 

That  is  poetry,  absolute  poetry ;  yet  the  most 
stupid  of  mortals  will  feel  its  force  and  its  truth, 
and  will  even  be  sensible  of  its  beauty;  it  is  the  very 
voice  of  nature  speaking  through  the  poet  to  the 
soul  and  heart  of  every  man,  however  low  his 
mental  or  moral  grade. 

In  the  poet's  soul  is  mirrored  all  humanity,  all 
nature.  The  poet  is  not  a  seer  for  himself;  his 
delight  in  apprehending  the  spiritual  significations  of 
his  sense-impressions  may  seem  to  merit  for  him  the 
epithets  egoist  and  epicure ;  yet  if  we  stop  there  we 
attain  only  one  of  those  partial  truths  which  are  ever 
deadly  falsehoods.  For  the  poet  is  more  than  recep- 
itive,  and  he  is  more  than  a  discerner  and  interpreter 
of  the  spiritual  meanings  of  sensible  things;  he  is 
also  altruistic  and  creative;  he  ^half  creates  and  half 
perceives.*  The  artist — poet,  musician,  painter,  or 
sculptor — elaborating  by  processes  revealed!  to  him 
alone,  the  material  of  his  art,  awakens  in  us*feelings 
akin  to  his  own,  when  in  *  serene  and  blessed  mood' 
he  *  sees  into  the  life  of  things.'  He  is  the  interpreter 
of  nature  for  his  less  gifted  fellow, whose  ear  catches 


•ClnitB  (n 
Brt. 


Tllnttis  in  not  the  low,  sad  music,  and  for  whom  the  pageant 
*  of  nature  is  *  as  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye/ 
The  poet  sees  the  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or 
land,  and  *  in  his  light  we  shall  see  light/  The  poet 
thrills  us  with  a  multitude  of  intimations  of  spiritual 
truths,  for  his  whole  soul  is  concentrated  in  his  work 
and  labors  to  have  complete  expression  as  far  as  the 
materials  under  his  hand  may  allow.  He  educes 
from  the  infinitude  of  his  sensory  experiences  all 
whatsoever  accords  with  the  tone  of  some  life-truth 
which  he  longs  to  make  known,  and  this  tone,  by 
the  aid  of  his  art  medium,  he  produces  in  us.  If  he 
is  a  musician,  his  artistic  creed  will  be  that  of  Pytha- 
goras as  rendered  by  Dryden. 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony 
This  universal  frame  beg:an : 

he  will  piously  believe  the  Grecian  myth,  truer  than 
any  history,  how 

Amphion  taugfht  contending  kingfs 
From  various  discords  to  create 
The  music  of  a  well-tuned  state. 

The  sculptor  or  the  painter  will  combine  visual 
perceptions,  such  as  lines  and  colors,  as  subtly  as  the 
musician  combines  audible  vibrations.  The  art 
medium  of  the  poet  will  be  words.  K  he  is  a  master 
of  the  significant,  he  will  reincarnate  what  he  com- 
prehends of  life  and  convey  his  thought  to  others. 
To  do  this,  he  is  necessarily  compelled  to  create  a 

98 


language  essentially  his  own ;  the  sap  of  the  word  "Cln^tB  (n 
participates  in  the  vitality  of  his  thought.    For  there 
is  in  language  both  personality,  fate  and  inspiration ; 
and  words  inspire  thought  as  well  as  express  thought. 

Thus  each  artist,  giving  form  in  the  material 
[proper  to  his  art,  to  his  individual  sense-impressions, 
'according  to  their  expressional  value,  fulfils  the  first 
requirement  of  all  art — ^that  it  shall  move  the  spiritual 
sensibility  by  means  of  pleasurable  excitations. 
Thus,  too,  he  enables  us  to  enter  indirectly  into  the 
soul  of  his  work,  which  he  alone  can  know  directly. 

Since  each  of  the  innumerable  sensory  concepts 
given  to  us  by  any  work  of  art,  for  example,  the 
Niobids  of  the  sculptor  Scopas,  has  its  separate  sig- 
nification and  value ;  and  since  each  separate  signi- 
|fication  is  spiritual,  the  expression  of  the  work  as  a 
whole  must  also  be  spiritual.  But  the  expression  of 
the  whole  is  by  no  means  merely  the  sum  of  the 
significations  of  the  several  parts  or  members  of  the 
group,  which  would  be  a  psychological  absurdity. 
For  though  the  several  figures  in  the  group  and  their 
several  parts,  as  the  feet,  arms,  breasts,  head,  of 
Niobe  and  her  children,  be  supposed  to  possess 
artistic  perfection  each  in  itself,  yet  no  association  of 
the  various  inner  or  spiritual  effects  produced  by 
them  will  enable  us  to  grasp  the  master  idea  of  the 
artist — the  unity  of  the  group.  Unity — not  *the 
unities' — is,  as  we  have  said,  the  soul  and  life  of  any 

99 


Tflnitis  in  -^ork  of  art ;  and  only  the  consummate  artist  can 
*  infuse  this  soul  into  his  work.  To  say  nothing  of 
the  spiritual  expression  of  a  work  of  art,  no  mere 
assemblage  of  its  constituent  parts  will  account  for 
our  unitary  mental  conception  of  it.  A  work  of  art 
must,  over  and  above  perfection  in  its  detail,  possess 
unity  in  expression;  it  must  say  one  thingt  and 
every  stroke  of  chisel,  or  pencil,  or  pen,  must  be  sub- 
dued to  that  one  purpose*  Should  the  artist  fail  in 
realizing  in  his  work  this  unity  of  idea,  then,  how- 
ever great  its  value  may  be  as  proof  of  skill  in 
detail  work,  as  a  whole  it  is  voiceless  and  expres- 
sionless ;  it  says  nothing. 

But,  as  will  often  happen,  the  artist's  conception 
of  the  unity  of  his  composition — historic  scene,  land- 
scape or  the  like — may  be  faultless  and  expressed  in 
his  work  with  perfect  fidelity,  and  yet  it  will  be 
unperccived  to  the  chance  comer,  and  may  require 
some  attentive  study  to  come  at  it.  Works  of  art 
are  not  intended  to  please  or  instruct  chance  comers ; 
truth  is  often  found  at  the  bottom  of  a  well.  Works 
of  art  are  themselves  the  fruit  of  deep  study  and 
meditation,  and  they  require  study  and  meditation  to 
understand  and  appreciate  them.  Meanwhile,  they 
will  even  by  their  details  give  a  sensible  delight,  and 
by  degrees  will  reveal  the  harmony  of  their  design. 

Standing  before  the  Niobe,  if  to  the  mild  aesthetic 
satisfaction  we  feel  at  sight  of  the  rippling  flow  of 

100 


her  drapery,  we  try  to  add  our  sentiment  of  pity  '^^^^'5  *n 
upon  seeing  her  beautiful  arm  relaxed  in  pain,  and 
the  sympathy  stirred  by  the  mother^s  anguish  of  her 
face,  we  shall  never  come  at  the  soul  and  life  of  the 
piece ;  or  rather,  we  shall  come  at  it  only  in  spite  of 
ourselves.  For  back  of  our  feelings  of  satisfaction, 
pity  and  sympathy,  is  a  larger  moral  and  aesthetic 
consciousness,  which  divines  the  intent  of  the  artist 
and  recognizes  the  unity  of  the  work;  its  several 
members  are  seen  to  be  unified  by  vital  co-operation 
organically,  not  by  addition  of  one  to  another. 

From  the  view-point  of  the  pseudo-classic 
school,  that  grand  tragi-comedy,  Shakspeare^s  King 
Henry  IV.,  appears  but  a  jostling  crowd  of  irrelated 
characters,  of  multifarious  and  incongruous  incidents. 
The  plot  is  incoherent,  and  the  play  baffles  every 
search  for  unity.  So  well  known  a  French  critic  as 
Paul  Dupont,  steeped  in  the  Grecian  and  Gallic 
tradition,  complains  that  there  is  little  action  and  less 
interest  in  this  play,  that  the  various  circumstances 
have  no  relation  among  themselves,  that  no  person 
predominates  over  the  others,  and  that  it  is  *the 
anarchy  of  the  scene.* 

Yet  to  one  who  reads  aright,  the  character  of 
the  King  gives  obvious  unity  to  the  play.  Every- 
where we  feel  the  dominance  of  the  royal  mind,  the 
royal  will.  His  form  is  ever  looming  on  the  horizon. 
His  spirit  permeates  the  tragic  and  the  comic  scenes 

m 


Tflnlti?  in  alike.     There  is,  too,  a  certain  unity  in  the  pervad- 
*  ing    sentiment  of    life- weariness,   which,  like    the 
burden  of  the  preacher. 

Vanity  of  vanities,  all  is  vanity, 

is  exemplified  in  the  last  words  of  the  dying  Percy, 
that 

Thowght's  the  slave  of  "life,  and  life's  time's  fooL 

It  is  echoed  by  Prince  Harry,  even  by  jesting 
Falstaff,  and  particularly  in  the  closing  speeches  of 
the  King.  There  is,  too,  a  deeper  unity,  a  purpose, 
which  gives  a  psychological  oneness  more  profound 
and  more  true  than  all  the  unities  of  the  schools. 
That  purpose  is  to  reveal  the  growth  of  a  spirit,  to 
exhibit  the  development  of  a  character. 

*In  the  Shakspearian  drama,*  to  quote  Cole- 
ridge, *  there  is  a  vitality  which  grows  and  evolves 
itself  from  within — a  keynote  which  guides  and  con- 
trols the  harmonies  throughout  * — and  in  this  play 
that  *  keynote  *  is  the  character  of  Prince  Hal.  In 
the  opening  scene  we  find  him  compared  to  his  dis- 
paragement, with  young  Hotspur.  His  own  father 
piteously  sorrowing 

In  envy  that  my  lord  Northumberland 
Should  be  the  father  of  so  blest  a  son : 


Whilst  I,  by  looking:  on  the  praise  of  him 
See  riot  and  dishonor  stain  the  brow 
Of  my  young:  Harry. 


J02 


Though  the  king  forces  'young  Harry*  from  "QlnitB  in 

his  thoughts  and  talks  of  *  young  Percy's  pride/  yet 

the  real  action  of  the  drama  has  commenced,  and 

every  incident  and  every  personage  assumes  a  proper 

and  necessary  place  in  that  harmony  of  which  the 

keynote  is  the  character  of  the  young  prince,  and  the 

motif  is  his  moral  and  spiritual  regeneration.    Even 

Falstaff,  'the  unimitated,   the  unimitable  Falstaff,' 

was  a  creation  necessary  to  the  transformation  of  the 

madcap  Prince  of  Wales  into  the  kingly  hero  of 

Agincourt.      Mark  the  wisdom  which  assigns  to 

Falstaff  the  speaking  of  those  words — 

It  is  certain  that  cither  wise  hearingf^  or 
Ignorant  carriage,  is  caught  as  men  take 
Diseases,  one  of  another ;  therefore  let 
Men  take  heed  of  their  company. 

Hotspur,  too,  contributes  to  the  growth  in  grace 

of  this  aforetime  roysterer  of  the  Boar's  Head,  this 

*mad  wag'  of  Gadshill,  who  chivalrous,  frees  the 

Douglas  ransomeless,  and  to  the  Percy  lying  dead, 

bids — 

Fare  thcc  well,  great  heart. 

*  Let  the  end  try  the  man,'  says  Shakspeare. 

And  when  in  the  last  act  of  the  last  scene,  the  new 

young  king  says. 

Presume  not  that  I  am  the  thing  I  was ; 
For  heaven  doth  know,  so  shall  the  world 

perceive 
That  I  have  tum'd  away  from  my  former  self* 
So  will  I  those  that  kept  me  company ; 

J03 


we  realize  that  the  dramatic  action  is  complete,  that 
the  highest  unity  has  been  observed.  Henry  of 
Monmouth  having  learned  the  great  lessons  of 
humanity  amidst  men  with  whom  his  follies  made 
him  equal, 

Consideration  like  an  angel  came 

And  whipped  th'  offending^  Adam  out  of  him. 

Power  is  at  the  root  of  all  poetic  worth ;  the 
words  and  images  of  the  poet  are  but  symbols  used 
to  produce  an  ideal  effect.  He  aims  to  convey 
human  emotion.  He  is  under  obligation  to  no  given 
unity,  but  uses  the  material  in  service  of  an  ideal 
unity.  Likewise  the  novelist  aims  to  present  an 
ideal  life  in  such  a  way  that  it  shall  affect  his 
reader  as  would  a  real  personality.  His  aim  is  to 
reconstruct  life  and  make  it  significant.  He  fails 
whenever  description  becomes  unduly  prominent,  or 
when  he  substitutes  psychological  analysis  of  his 
dramatis  personae  for  the  interpretation  of  life  as  its 
significance  is  revealed  to  his  own  soul.  He  succeeds 
just  so  far  as  he  is  able  to  dissolve  the  continuity  of 
actual  experience,  and  to  bring  together  those  elements 
which,  though  in  fact  widely  separated  one  from 
another,  do  truly  possess  spiritual  unity. 

The  true  synthetic  or  unifying  element  in  a  work 
of  art  is  always  primarily  emotion, — ^thc  heart,  not  the 
mind.  The  rational  faculty  discriminates,  arranges, 
coordinates*     Its  special  power  lies  in  analysis;  it 

104 


can  only  lay  parts  together,  conformably  to  a  plan ;  "Clw^tB  in 
as  when  the  anatomist,  rearranging  the  members  of 
the  dead  body,  gives  a  suggestion  of  life.  But  there 
is  suggestion  of  life,  only  because  the  idea  of  life  is 
invincibly  associated  in  our  minds  with  the  human 
form.  Scientific  analysis  is  alien  to  the  artistic  tem- 
perament; the  artistes  faculty  is  intuition,  not  induc- 
tion* The  difference  between  the  reconstructed 
cadaver  and  the  living,  breathing  man,  is  the  differ- 
ence between  a  composition  by  rule-of-art  and  an 
imaginative  creation. 

It  is  the  aim  of  intelligence  to  produce  results 
like  itseE  The  soul  of  the  artist  animates  his  master- 
piece. To  give  a  dramatic  presentation  of  a  situation 
he  must  participate  in  it ;  he  must  for  the  nonce  be 
the  character  to  which  he  would  give  life.  In  that 
consummate  portrait  of  a  hypocrite  churchman. 
Bishop  Btougram's  Apology,  every  trait  is  drawn  in 
the  clear  light  of  poetic  contemplation.  Rarely  has 
such  a  character-study  been  made ;  and  in  making  it 
Browning  for  the  nonce  is  himself  transformed  into 
the  very  essence  of  hypocrisy.  The  poem  is  a  libel, 
indeed ;  it  is  sent  to  the  wrong  address ;  nevertheless 
it  is  a  work  of  genius ;  this  hypocrite  is  no  lay  figure, 
no  man  of  straw,  but  an  incarnate  spirit,  living, 
breathing,  moving. 

To  the  spectator  possessed  of  aesthetic  sen- 
sibility the  portrait  of  Mona  Lisa  appears  animated 

JOS 


TUnftB  in  tjy  a  soul,  the  very  spirit  of  Leonardo  finds  cxprcs- 

*  sion  in  those  speaking  lineaments.    The  soul  of  the 

artist  has  become  one  with  the  soul  of  his  subject; 

and  the  spectator  feels  that  he  is  in  the  presence  of  a 

living  spiritual  force. 

This  synthetic  element,  this  element  of  unity  in 
a  work  of  art  we  may  attempt  to  define  as  consisting 
in  the  rejection  of  elements,  the  datum  of  which  do 
not  form  part  of  the  ideal  order,  and  the  introduction 
of  elements  from  other  data  which  do  form  such 
part.  But  it  is  more  than  that ;  it  is,  indeed,  some- 
thing so  inward  and  essential  that  like  all  elemental 
things  it  is,  except  in  the  most  vague  and  negative 
terms,  indefinable.  But  it  is  discoverable  in  any 
sculpture,  picture,  poem  or  person  that  you  really  love; 
and  it  is  the  individuality  of  that  work  of  art  or  that 
person — in  either  case  a  human  individuality,  a 
human  personality.  It  is  in  Hazlitfs  words  *  that  fine 
particle  which  expands,  rarefies,  refines,  raises  our 
whole  being ;  without  which  man^s  life  is  poor  as  a 
beast's ' ;  it  is  the  human  soul,  the  spiritual  essence 
of  man.  Of  this  *  fine  particle  *  no  critic  can  tell  you 
anything,  except  that,  like  Hazlitt  himself,  or  like 
Lamb,  Hunt,  Arnold,  he  does  so  indirectly,  *  in  a  fig- 
ure ' ;  when,  in  words  which  are  themselves  thor- 
oughly imaginative,  he  catches  the  spirit  of  the  thing 
criticised,  as  one  by  sympathetic  imitation  catches  the 
inmost  self  of  another.    But  this  unifying  *  spirit' 

i06 


eludes  the  analysis  and  research  of  the  physicist,  the  "'^in^tB  in 
metaphysician,  the  psychologist.  Being  strictly  indi-  ^'** 
vidual,  it  is  not  subject-matter  of  any  science;  for 
science  studies  species,  not  individuals*  To  know 
what  it  is,  is  to  divine  it  through  sympathy ;  but  only 
the  artist  can  express  it,  A  true  work  of  art  reveals  the 
artistes  soul,  speaking  out  from  passion  felt,  not  feigned; 
and  from  intuition,  not  hearsay ;  it  is  a  revelation  of 
the  artist's  ideal  world  and  of  his  own  souL 

Mind  is  the  atmosphere  of  the  individual  soul ; 
it  is  the  fire  of  which  thought  is  the  flame ;  its  psy- 
chological significance  in  art  is — personality.  *In 
the  depths  of  human  minds  all  literatures  lie  dor- 
mant/ By  presenting  life  as  it  is  revealed  to  his 
own  soul,  thought  as  it  is  born  in  his  own  intellect, 
the  artist  will  touch  a  responsive  chord  in  some  other 
soul,  express  what  some  other  intellect  has  dimly 
perceived,  and  awaken  in  men's  minds  feelings  that 
were  ready  to  blossom. 

In  the  art  of  literature,  dominion  over  the  sig- 
nificant can  only  result  from  personality,  since  per- 
sonality is  the  individual  conception  of  the  signifi- 
cant, and  power  over  minds  and  men  is  a  genius  for 
its  grasping  and  communicating*  The  sons  of  dex- 
terity, and  the  imitators,  may  give  us  facile  prose 
and  flowing  verse,  perfection  of  a  thousand  details ; 
but  failure  in  this  personal  sense  for  the  significant 
means  failure  to  convey  power.     In  this  alone  will 

J07 


•ClnftB  in  be  found  true  unity^    This  alone  is  impressive  and 
*  important ;  convincing,  world-changing.  Manliness, 
robustness, {effectiveness,  the  expression  of  the  high- 
est spiritual  meaning  in  so  far  as  it  is  revealed  to 
the  writer,  that  is  personality:  life-communicating, 
life-enhancing.      Only  through  this   unifying 
quality! of  personality,  the  power  of  truth 
as  reflected  from  an  individual  soul, 
can'come  the  realization  of  the 
vision  of  a  glorious,  but 
possible,  humanity 
in  literature. 


w 


m 


TWO  nCTIONAL  FRIARS 


TWO  FICTIONAL  FRIARS   ^   ^   ^ 
FRIAR  LAURENCE  >   FRA  CRISTOFERO 

IRIARS  have  disappeared 
from  the  stage  of  life.  Their 
{day  has  passed* 

In  Italy  the  frate  2itz 
I  still  to  be  seen,  lurking  in 
the  background.  In  by- 
streets their  faces  sometimes 
appear  emerging  from  their 
cowls;  and  as  they  cross 
the  gay  avenues  of  the  cities 
,  their  sandaled  feet  are  in  danger  from  prancing 
horses  and  swift  automobiles.  Unobserved  they 
pass,  neither  loved  nor  hated  by  the  hurrying  crowd. 
No  one  could  now  describe  them  as  Manzoni  did  in 
the  first  pages  of  /  Promesi  Sposu 

In  Manzoni's  day  no  station  was  too  high,  none 
too  lowly  for  a  Capuchin.  He  served  the  most  miser- 
able wretches,  and  was  served  by  the  most  powerful 
lords*  With  fearless  yet  humble  mien  he  crossed 
the  threshold  of  a  palace;  yet  the  dweller  in  the 
sordid  hovel  was  his  brother.  In  the  same  house 
he  might  be  the  amusement  of  the  menials,  and 
yet  the  counsellor  and  guide  of  the  master.  He 
took  alms  from  all,  and  gave  to  all  who  came  to 
his  convent  door ;  a  Capuchin  was  prepared  for  all 
things. 

n3 


c;wo  ^fictional  Even  more  thoroughly  than  from  the  stage  of 

*  real  life,  have  the  friars  been  evicted  from  that  world 
of  romance,  in  which,  for  centuries,  they  played  so 
important  a  part. 

This  Deas  ex  machina  of  ancient  plots,  this  sol- 
ver of  puzzling  intrigues,  intermediary  in  bringing 
about  the  marriage  of  desponding  lovers,  and  the 
penitence  of  condemned  malefactors,  is  dead  and 
gone  in  his  turn.  Be  the  Requiescat  in  pace  which 
he  so  often  pronounced  over  the  remains  of  poor 
humanity  the  inscription  on  his  own  tomb.  His 
place  is  filled  in  fiction  as  in  real  life.  In  the  modern 
story,  or  play,  a  sober  professor,  a  learned  physician, 
appears  to  speak  the  word  or  to  produce  the  paper 
that  turns  the  tide  of  events^ 

Since  the  friar  is  a  figure  of  the  past,  and  not 
likely  to  rise  from  his  sepulchre,  it  will  be  interesting 
to  catch  one  of  the  vanishing  aspects  of  this  shadow 
of  eld,  as  it  was  apprehended  by  a  great  and  sympa- 
thetic writer  of  modem  Italy. 

It  were  an  easy  task  but  useless  to  seek  among 
French  fabliaux  and  Italian  novelle  for  the  original 
type  of  the  friar  of  fiction,  for  the  characteristic  of  all 
those  figures  is  their  incompleteness.  In  them  the 
friar  is  never  a  whole  personality.  Even  as  por- 
trayed by  the  masters,  he  remains  an  unfinished 
figure,  a  silhouette,  an  outline  seen  from  one  side,  a 
profit  perdu*    The  fabliaux  show  us  a  burlesque 

U4 


manikin,  a  butt  of  broad  humor  and  obscene  jests ;  ^^^^^  Xaurencc, 
and  the  novellatori  accept  this  model,  never  troubling 
their  minds  to  put  a  real  man  under  the  cowl  of  their 
jolly  masks. 

Chaucer,  Boccaccio  and  Rabelais  have  given  us 
masterful  portraits  of  friars;  but  if  we  compare  these 
^with  the  same  authors'  portraitures  of  other  charac- 
'ters,  we  must  acknowledge  that  even  these  men  of 
might  ofttimes  failed  to  impart  lifelikeness  to  their 
hooded  offspring* 

Very  different  is  Shakspeare's  Friar  Laurence ; 
and  Manzoni's  Fra  Cristofero  is  perhaps  one  of  the 
best  examples  of  the  friar  that  is  to  be  found  in 
literature. 

The  two  figures  have  traits  in  common ;  both 
are  Italian ;  both  are  connected  with  a  love  affair ; 
but  there  the  similarity  ends.  And  in  these  two 
authors*  widely  divergent  views  of  the  friar  type,  we 
I  have  perhaps  a  measure  of  the  distance  between  two 
quite  different  epochs  of  literature;  for  Manzoni, 
writing  in  the  first  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
describes  a  scene  from  the  seventeenth  century,  while 
Shakspeare,  writing  at  the  close  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  presents  a  picture  of  fourteenth  century  life. 
Since  every  just  comparison  achieves  for  the  mind 
that  it  may  see  two  truths  at  once,  and  since  great  gen- 
eral power  is  inconsistent  with  novelty,  and,  the  real 
poet  creates  more  when  he  finds  his  work  half  done 

US 


^wo  ^fictional  for  him;  without  borrowing  trouble  as  to  their  origin, 

*  but  rather  as  if  they  were  new  creatures  of  poetic 

imagination,  let  us  consider  Friar  Laurence  and  Fra 

Cristofero  as  they  are  depicted,  the  one  by  Shaks- 

peare,  the  other  by  Manzoni. 

In  the  Shakspearian  fresco  the  friar  stands 
second  only  in  importance  to  the  immortal  lovers ; 
though  he  is  not  meant  to  be  fully  seen ;  the  light  falls 
on  one  side  of  the  figure,  while  some  parts  are 
purposely  left  in  shadow,  Manzoni's  friar,  on  the 
contrary,  is  accurately  pencilled,  nicely  finished  and 
set  in  full  sunshine ;  yet,  of  the  two,  the  more  fully 
outlined  figure  is  the  less  complete* 

The  first  words  uttered  by  the  friar  of  Romeo 
and  Juliet  give  an  idea  of  the  man;  of  his  kindli- 
ness, his  admiration  for  nature,  his  sympathy  with  all 
that  surrounds  him.  The  gray-eyed  morn  smiling 
on  the  frowning  night ;  the  winsome  grace  that  lies 
in  herbs,  plants,  stones;  all  these  he  studies  and 
loves ;  but  neither  his  mind  nor  his  heart  is  indif- 
ferent to  the  wants  and  the  frailties  of  his  fellow  men. 
He  knows  that  virtue  itself  changes  to  vice  being 
misapplied,  and  that  sometimes  even  crime  is  digni- 
fied by  heroic  action.  He  knows,  too,  that  a  young 
man's  love  lies  not  in  his  heart  but  in  his  eyes.  He 
perceives  the  inconstancy  of  Romeo's  change  of 
sweethearts  in  a  single  night.  Still,  he  does  not 
despair  of  human  nature ;  and  with  this  young  love 

116 


las  his  lever,  he  hopes  to  turn  rancour  into  sweetness  ^^^^^  Xaurence, 
land  that  ultimately  he  may  bring  peace  to  the  war- 
ring houses  of  Montague  and  Capulet. 

Manzoni  has  not  found  for  his  friar  so  effective 
an  entree;  but  with  care  and  exactitude  he  describes 
this  friar  who  so  readily  obeys  the  summons  of 
the  afflicted  mother  and  daughter.  Fra  Cristofero's 
father  is  depicted  as  a  vain,  self-made  man,  anxious 
to  have  his  earlier  life  as  a  tradesman  forgotten  by 
1  others  and  by  himself  also*  Ludovico,  Fra  Cristofero 
;  that  is  to  be,  was  a  young  man  of  brilliant  talent,  but 
sowing  his  wild  oats  and  reaping  a  plentiful  harvest  of 
bitter  experience^  The  tragical  ending  of  a  street  broil, 
which  leads  to  the  young  man's  taking  refuge  in  a 
convent,  is  a  finished  picture  of  the  times,  and  shows 
with  what  care  Manzoni  worked;  but  this  scene 
gives  us  no  insight  into  the  young  man's  feelings* 
Any  other  Christian  soul  in  like  circumstances  must 
have  had  the  same  suffering*  We  do  not  see  an  indi- 
vidual tortured  by  the  pains  of  his  guilty  conscience; 
we  have  only  a  noble  portraiture  of  remorse. 

*  Ludovico  had  never  before  that  day  shed  blood, 
though  in  that  age  homicide  was  a  thing  so  common 
that  all  eyes  had  become  inured  to  such  sights  and 
all  ears  deaf  to  such  tales ;  yet  the  shock  given  him 
by  the  sight  of  one  man  slain  by  his  hand  and 
another  slain  on  his  account,  was  in  its  newness 
awful,  appalling.    Emotions  as  yet  unwonted  were 

U7 


^wo  fictional  suddenly  stirred  by  the  fall  of  his   enemy.    The 
^^^'  rapid  change  in  that  countenance,  passing  in  an 
instant  from  rage  and  menace  to  the  calm  and  still- 
ness of  death,  made  such  a  spectacle  as  produced  a 
revulsion  in  the  mind  of  the  slayer/ 

He  escapes  from  arrest  by  fleeing  to  a  neighbor- 
ing convent,  and  there  resolves  to  make  amends  for 
his  crime.  Summoning  a  notary  he  conveys  his 
property  to  the  widow  and  children  of  Cristofero, 
whom  he  has  slain ;  and  convinced  that  the  hand  of 
God  has  led  him  to  the  convent,  thus  saving  him 
from  his  pursuers,  he  resolves  to  enter  religion  and 
become  a  friar.  *  Thus  at  the  age  of  thirty  Ludovico 
took  the  religious  habit,  and,  being  required,  as  cus- 
tomary, to  change  his  name,  he  chose  one  that  would 
continually  remind  him  of  the  sin  he  had  to  expiate 
— the  name  of  Cristofero.' 

To  the  mind  of  a  devout  Catholic,  as  was  Man- 
zoni,  this  action  needed  almost  no  explanation,  and 
on  it  he  makes  little  reflection.  The  feeling  of  the 
victim's  brother,  a  proud  nobleman,  and  his  clever 
management  by  the  father  guardian  of  the  convent, 
is  a  delightful  bit  of  description.  Before  he  departs 
for  a  distant  cloister,  the  newly-made  friar  wishes 
to  supplicate  the  pardon  of  the  murdered  man's 
brother.  The  latter  desires  the  interview  to  be  as 
formal  and  solemn  as  it  can  be  made ;  for  he  per- 
ceives that  in  this  way  his  importance  as  head  of  the 


family  will  be  enhanced.    And  besides,  the  incident  ^^^^^  Xautencc. 
will  make  a  good  figure  in  the  family  history. 

On  the  appointed  day  the  friends  and  depend- 
ants assemble  in  the  palace,  while  the  Seigneur, 
surrounded  by  his  nearest  relatives,  stands  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  his  looks  downcast;  his  right 
hand  crossed  over  his  breast,  his  left  hand  grasping 
the  hilt  of  his  sword.  Although  there  is  no  evidence 
that  he  had  ever  entertained  the  slightest  affection 
for  his  brother  when  living,  and  had  certainly  profited 
by  his  death,  yet  he  has  the  true  Italian  instinct  for 
the  value  of  pose,  and  enjoys  his  rote  as  chief  actor 
in  this  drama  of  forgiveness  and  reconciliation. 

The  pardon  having  been  duly  asked  and  granted, 
and  the  proffered  refreshments  declined,  Fra  Cristo- 
fero  begs  a  loaf  of  bread,  'That  I  may  partake  of 
your  charity  and  eat  of  your  bread  after  being  blessed 
with  your  forgiveness.'  Apart  from  its  environment 
of  place  and  time,  this  sounds  rather  theatrical;  but 
'  considered  as  a  whole,  the  scene  is  effective,  though 
it  fails  to  reveal  the  soul  of  this  particular  friar.  For 
Cristofero  has  only  acted  as  every  other  humble 
Franciscan  would  have  acted  in  his  place.  Vainly 
we  listen  to  catch  *the  very  pulse  of  the  machine' 
beneath  the  cowl;  its  throbs  arc  not  to  be  heard. 

Turning  to  the  other  picture.  When  called  by 
those  lovers.  Friar  Laurence  does  not  stop  to  reflect. 
He  rushes  onward  and  assists  as  he  may  to  forward 


Zvfo  fictional  the  object  of  their  desire.     He  wastes  no  precious 

*  moments  in  vain  words,  like  Fra  Cristofero,  who 

very  bravely  but  very  unprofitably  beards  the  lion  in 

his  den.     Friar  Laurence  is  worldly-wise  enough  to 

feel  the  uselessness  of  such  a  proceeding. 

The  words  Cristofero  addresses  to  his  angry 
adversary  are  both  brave  and  inspired  by  a  Christian 
spirit ;  but  are  they  likely  to  produce  any  good  result? 
The  friar  dimly  feels  that  he  is  rather  spoiling  than 
mending  matters,  yet  is  he  impelled  to  action  rather 
by  his  desire  to  triumph  over  his  own  proud  spirit, 
than  to  overcome  the  wickedness  of  others.  He 
aspires  to  holiness,  and  on  that  are  his  thoughts 
fixed,  not  on  his  protegees  welfare. 

This  outburst,  however,  will  not  be  fruitless. 
Like  every  other  generous  effort,  it  must  bring  some 
good,  and  when  Roderigo  falls  a  prey  to  the  plague, 
in  his  fevered  brain  this  warning  figure  of  the  friar 
calling  him  to  repentance  will  be  forever  rising  and 
repeating  the  brave  words.  No  wonder  that  same 
cowled  visage,  later  on,  bending  over  the  young 
profligate^s  death-bed,  has  power  to  recall  the  guilty 
soul  to  repentance. 

Friar  Laurence  is  prompted  by  quite  different 
motives.    Of  course,  he  will  devoutly  say: 
So  smile  the  heavens  upon  this  holy  act. 
That  after  hours  with  sorrow  chide  us  not. 

But  he  is  wondering,  not  so  much  if  this  hasty 
120 


marriage  be  right  or  wrong,  but  if  it  will  bring  good  or  ^^^^^  Xaurence» 
bad  consequences*  He  allows  the  lovers'  impatience 
to  urge  him  on;  and  though  he  knows  that  *  violent 
delights  have  violent  ends/  and  that  *too  swift  arrives 
as  tardy  as  too  slow,'  still,  out  of  the  generous  im- 
pulses of  his  heart,  he  cannot  rest  a  moment  while 
they  are  unmarried,  and  so  he  makes  short  work  of 
it,  and  holy  church  incorporates  these  two  in  one. 

Many  are  the  examples  of  this  inconsistency  in 
everyday  life.  Our  short-sighted  human  wisdom 
speaks  soberly  and  acts  foolishly*  And  because 
Friar  Laurence  is  not  a  saint,  but  just  a  man  like 
our  next-door  neighbor,  with  all  the  weakness  and 
warm  feelings  of  real  life,  do  we  love  him  dearly, 
and  do  we  admire  the  creative  power  of  his  many- 
souled  author. 

When  Romeo  is  raving  in  despair  after  his 
banishment,  who  could  soothe  him  with  gentle 
words,  with  human  sympathy?  Who  but  the  friar? 
How  clearly  he  points  to  the  *  dear  mercy '  which 
the  unlucky  youth  cannot  as  yet  see  ?  When  Romeo 
would  kill  himself  *to  sack  the  hateful  mansion', 
with  what  authority  does  the  friar  chide  this  un- 
manly sorrow.  He  reminds  Romeo  that  Tybalt, 
who  would  have  killed  him  is  disposed  of ;  that  his 
sentence  of  death  has  been  changed  to  that  of  banish- 
ment, and  that  this  will  soon  be  annulled ;  that  mean- 
while his  Juliet  lives ;  and  out  of  his  heart,  big  with 

J2J 


XTwo  fictional  compassion,  he  bids  this  forlorn  husband  hasten  to 

*  his  expectant  bride* 

Go,  g;et  thee  to  thy  love,  as  was  decreed, 
*  Ascend  her  chamber,  hence  and  comfort  her. 

and  this,  considering  the  circumstances,  is  real  human 
charity ;  but  is  it  a  friar  that  acts  and  speaks  so  ? 

K  Manzoni  forgets  to  put  a  man  in  the  mon- 
astic robe,  here  Shakspeare  has  forgotten  to  put 
the  cowl  and  hood  over  his  figure  of  a  man.  Whilst 
Friar  Laurence  marries  these  lovers  and  sends  Romeo 
to  his  lady's  bedroom,  Cristofero,  for  some  unknown 
reason,  has  not  even  tried  to  marry  the  two  lovers 
he  is  endeavoring  to  assist ;  but  on  the  contrary  gives 
to  Renzo  the  unexpected  advice  that  in  this  moment 
of  danger  he  should  part  from  his  betrothed,  and  that 
they  should  go  each  a  different  way. 

The  inner  soul  of  our  saintly  friar  stands  bet- 
ter revealed  in  the  few  words  of  prayer  and  forgive- 
ness which  he  wants  his  protigis  to  pronounce  with 
him,  before  they  part  on  their  several  ways.  His 
saintly  soul  strives  to  submit ;  he  prays  for  the  tyrant 
and  calls  God's  blessing  on  the  heads  of  the  innocent 
and  the  wicked  alike.  Such  a  prayer  is  the  greatest 
effort  of  human  nature  toward  perfection ;  let  us  be 
thankful  to  Manzoni  for  showing  us  the  way,  even 
though  we  are  conscious  of  our  inability  to  follow  it. 
Rising  from  his  knees  the  good  frate  exclaims* 
*  Come,  my  children,  you  have  no  time  to  lose ;  God 

122 


guard  yout  may  his  angcl  go  with  you ;  fare  yc  well !  ^tlat  Xautencc, 
My  heart  tells,  me  we  shall  meet  soon  again';  and 
without  waiting  for  reply,  Fra  Cristofero  hastily 
withdraws.  Certainly  the  heart,  to  those  who  listen 
to  its  still  small  voice,  often  tells  us  what  will  happen ; 
yet  how  often  do  we  think  we  hear  its  voice  in 
prophecy,  when  it  is  only  our  desire  that  prompts  the 
thought !    And  so  it  was  with  Fra  Cristofero. 

From  this  point,  which  is  in  effect  the  opening 
of  the  story,  the  plot  unfolds  itself  and  continues 
almost  to  the  end  without  the  assistance,  or  even  the 
presence  of  the  good  friar;  whereas  when  once 
Shakspeare  has  brought  Friar  Laurence  on  the  stage 
he  keeps  him  constantly  before  us.  We  feel  that 
Manzoni's  story  could  have  been  told  even  if  he  had 
not  thought  of  the  character  of  Cristofero.  Friar 
Laurence,  on  the  contrary,  is  as  essential  to  the  story 
of  Shakspeare*s  play  as  is  Romeo  himseE  In  this 
also  is  revealed  the  supreme  genius  of  the  English 
master;  none  of  his  characters  are  ever  superfluous; 
and  when  he  presents  them  to  us,  he  keeps  them 
before  us,  and  through  them  binds  all  the  story  into 
one  homogeneous  whole  until  their  parts  are  played 
out,  and  usually  until  the  close  of  the  play. 

Ill  give  thee  armor  to  keep  off  that  word ; 

Adversity's  sweet  milk,  philosophy. 

To  comfort  thee,  though  thou  art  banished. 

These  words  of  cheer  could  avail  little  for  Romeo, 

123 


if  there  were  words  only,  and  had  not  Friar  Laurence 
provided  that  *good  counsel*  which  the  nurse  would 
stay  all  night  to  hear,  and  which  sends  Romeo  to 
*3,  joy  past  joy/ 

The  rest  is  familiar  to  us.  Paris  and  Juliet  both 
turn  to  the  friar  for  advice,  because  they  know  how 
well  he  is  able  to  help  and  protect.  His  sympathy 
for  Juliet  prompts  him  to  give  a  desperate  counsel 
which  none  but  a  woman  in  despair  would  accept. 
He  spies 

A  kind  of  hope 
Which  craves  as  desperate  an  execution 
As  that  i&  desperate  which  we  would  prevent. 

Friar  Laurence  has  quite  forgotten  that  he  is  a 
friar,  and  we,  too,  are  quite  ready  to  forget  it,  and  to 
see  only  the  man  fighting,  not  wisely,  but  with  all 
his  might  against  cruel  misfortune. 

In  considering  an  individual,  that  which  must 
ever  most  appeal  to  us  is  the  stuff  of  which  he  is 
made.  The  humanity  within  him,  'that  touch  of 
nature  which  makes  the  whole  world  kin,'  must 
ever  come  home  to  us  as  could  no  characteristic  or 
habit  of  mind  or  body  peculiar  to  the  individual's 
special  calling.  Not  being  ourselves  friars,  we  may 
not  understand  the  friar  nor  be  specially  interested  in 
what  a  friar  might  do  or  say  in  a  given  situation; 
but  what  a  man  would  do  and  feel  in  such  circum- 
stances does  interest  both  the  heart  and  the  mind. 

124 


In  Friar  Laurence  it  is  the  Man  that  interests  us,  ^^^^^  Xaurence. 
not  the  Friar ;  in  Fra  Cristofero  it  is  the  Friar.  Cristo- 
fero  is  not  made  for  action ;  he  is  discreetly  set  aside 
while  the  action  of  the  story  proceeds*  The  most 
important  things  happen  wh^e  he  is  away  some- 
where in  the  South,  sent  there  to  please  the  lordling, 
who  wants  to  be  rid  of  the  officious  friar.  Here  we 
feel  the  weakness  of  Manzoni;  it  is  as  if  in  these 
stirring  events  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  the 
saintly  Cristofero ;  so  he  locks  him  up  in  a  closet,  or, 
what  is  the  same  thing,  in  a  convent;  and  there 
keeps  him  till  the  time  comes  for  him  to  reappear, 
when  he  is  brought  forward  again.  Toward  the 
end,  we  find  him  attending  the  sick  with  character- 
istic devotion  and  the  love  for  his  fellow  men. 

Here,  surrounded  by  distress  and  pain  and  amid 
the  saddest  spectacle  that  human  misery  can  present 
— scenes  which  Manzoni  describes  with  a  power  un- 
equalled perhaps  by  any  of  his  younger  rivals — Cris- 
tofero looms  grand  as  the  spirit  of  compassion  over 
this  ocean  of  suffering. 

Renzo  has  been  wandering  through  the  lazaretto 
in  search  of  Lucia,  dreading  yet  longing  to  find  her 
there,  when  he  espies  Fra  Cristofero,  and  hastens  to 
address  him.  The  friar  is  partaking  of  such  frugal 
repast  as  the  place  affords,  still  peering  about  and  lis- 
tening for  the  first  call  from  one  of  the  many  sufferers 
around  him.  He  is  here,  not  by  order  of  his  superiors, 

\25 


Cwo  fictional  \^^  ^t  his  own  entreaty,  to  be  permitted  to  serve  the 
*  sore  stricken  Milanese.  He  is  now  exhausted  by  his 
heavy  task ;  death^s  seal  is  stamped  on  his  pallid 
features ;  but  his  heart  is  unchanged,  his  holy  zeal 
unquenched.  After  the  first  inquiries  Renzo  mutters 
curses  against  the  author  of  all  his  misery* 

*  Miserable  man/  exclaims  Fra  Cristofero,  in  a 
voice  full  and  sonorous  as  in  former  days ;  and  the 
drooping  head  is  raised  erect  while  the  eyes  flash  fire 
and  his  breast  heaves  with  emotion  long  unwonted ; 
*  Look,  miserable  man !  Behold  all  around  us  who 
punishes !  Who  judges  ?  What  do  you  know  of 
vengeance,  what  of  Justice  ?  Begone  I  You  have 
betrayed  all  my  hopes/ 

Renzo  is  a  good  fellow,  and  it  is  not  very  difficult 
to  persuade  him  that  he  must  forgive  his  enemy ;  but 
Cristofcro  is  bent  on  obtaining  a  complete  triumph 
over  Renzo's  rancour,  as  well  as  over  his  own ;  and 
suddenly  bending  his  head  very  low,  in  slow  deep 
tones  he  adds :  *  Do  you  know  why  I  wear  this  garb  ?* 
Renzo  hesitates* 

'You  know  it  well,'  repeated  the  old  man*  'I  do,' 
answered  Renzo.  *  I  too  have  hated.  I  who  resented 
a  hasty  word  of  yours.  I  killed  the  man  I  hated*  I 
too  have  hated  with  all  my  soul;  and  the  man  I 
hated,  that  man  I  slew.' 

*  Yes,  a  tyrant ;  one  of  those — ' 

*  Hush  I'  interrupted  the  friar;    'Think  you 

126 


that  if  there  were  any  good  reason  for  it,  I  should  ^^^^  Xaurcncc, 
not  have  found  it  in  thirty  years  ?  Ah,  if  I  could  but 
instil  into  your  heart  the  sentiment  I  have  ever  since 
had  and  still  have,  for  the  man  I  hated  I  If  I  could  I 
I  ?  But  God  can  I  Listen,  Renzo/ 

The  sequel  is  beautifully  worked  out,  but  it 
must  be  read  in  its  entirety  if  we  would  appreciate 
the  character  of  the  saintly  friar* 

Cristofero  rises  to  heights  that  human  frailty 
dares  not  essay.  His  soul  has  gone  forward  toward 
full-orbed  splendor,  and  radiates  a  charm  so  exquisite, 
a  sweetness  so  winning,  an  energy  so  puissant,  an 
essence  intangible,  evanescent,  spiritual,  that  he  seems 
to  breathe  a  more  ethereal  atmosphere  than  this  of 
earth.  The  friar  rises  even  above  the  petty  rules 
of  religious  scruples,  when,  with  the  authority  given 
him  by  his  order,  he  declares  Lucia  released  from  her 
vow. 

In  Friar  Laurence  we  feel  the  touch  of  our  com- 
mon humanity,  in  him  it  is  the  man,  the  human- 
hearted  man  that  we  love ;  but  in  Fra  Cristofero  we 
recognize  sainthood.  We  understand  and  sympa- 
thize with  Friar  Laurence ;  we  look  up  to  and  strive 
to  imitate  Fra  Cristofero* 

Both  Shakspeare  and  Manzoni  have  given  each 
to  his  friar  an  appropriate  exit.  As  the  story  per- 
mits Friar  Laurence  to  go  in  peace  and  the  Prince 
is  justified  in  saying,  *  we  still  have  known  thee  for  a 

127 


Zwo  fictional  holy  man* ;  so  too  with  Lucia  we  learn  *  with  more 
'  sorrow  than  surprise  that  he  died  of  the  plague/ 

This  is  the  beauty  and  also  the  weakness  of 

such  a  character ;  it  is  above  nature.    But  yet,  if  a 

human  soul  has  been  able  to  think  it ;  if  other  human 

souls  have  understood  and  for  one  moment  at  least 

comprehended  the  beauty  and  purity  of  this  splendid 

unreality ;  can  we  not  hope  that  some  hidden  flame 

of  pure  love   is   still  living  unseen,  unfelt,  in  our 

hearts,  ready  to  leap  and  flash  forth  at  the  call  of 

some  kindred  spirit  above  ?   Our  modem  romanciers 

are  always  ready  to  show  us  what  demons  of 

hellish  passion  lurk  in  the  best  of  us ;  let 

us  be  thankful  to  those,  like  Manzoni, 

who  show  us  the  possibilities  of 

our  ardoyante  et  dtberse 

human  nature. 


128 


THE  HEARING  OF  MUSIC  AS  A 
SENSUOUS  AND  A  SPIRITUAL  PLEASURE 


■MiiiBMMHirittiMiyi 


wiM 


'the  hearing  of  music  as  a  sensuous  and 
Ia  spiritual  pleasure   ^   ^  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

IDEEP-TONED  BELL  has  for 

years  pealed  daily  and  hourly  from, 
a  stone  steeple;  in  a  garrison  near 
a  suspension  bridge  military  bands  ^ 
have  for  years  sottnded  their  bla- 
tant martial  music.     One  day  it  is' 
found  that  strands  of  the  steel  cable] 
which  sustains  the  bridge  are  bro- 
ken, that  the  steeple  is  in  danger  of 
disintegration.    And  science,  when 
asked  the  cause,  points  to  the  military  band  and  to  the  bell. 
I  may  not  understand  how  sound  can  accomplish  the 
destruction  of  a  bridge  that  bears  without  hurt  the  measured' 
tramp  of  a  marching  regiment,  or  how  the  same  cause  can 
threaten  wreck  to  a  steeple  which  might  withstand  a  cannon-  • 
shot.     Sounds,  however  long  continued,  have  not  that  effect 
^upon  me.     I  find  pleasure  in  the  lively  band  music,  and  in 
the  deep  tone  of  the   bell.     What  is  sound  that  it  should 
have  these  differing  results? 

Steel  rope  and  steeple  have  heard  no  sound.  If  they^ 
could  speak  they  would  ask  me  what  I  mean  by  'hear* 
and  *  sound.'  They  might  perhaps  tell  me  how  this  suc- 
cession of  more  or  less  energetic  vibrations — this  motion 
repeated  day  after  day,  effects  their  gradual  disintegration,  butj 
of  sound  they  could  give  no  idea,  for  them  it  is  naught;  these 
vibrations  arc  nothing  but  physical  tremors,  in  the  absence  oig 
an  organ  of  hearing  and  a  brain. 

The  same  succession  of  vibrations,  the  same  motion, 
which  reaches  the  iron  rope,  reaches  me  also ;  and  I,  having-^ 
^hat  the.i'Ope  has  not,  an  ojgan  of  hearing  and  a  brain,  ai 


ttbc  Scstbetic  an&  conscious  of  sound.     But  how?    Let  us  begin  our 

Spiritual  in  ^usic.  ,        ,       *  .j    .        ^        «  r  * 

inquiry  by  considcnng  the  phenomenon  of  sound 

in  detail. 

The  phenomenon  of  sound,  considered  object- 
ively, is  perceived  to  be  a  simple  physical  phenome- 
non of  motion,  a  regular  and  more  or  less  rapid  suc- 
cession of  undulations  or  waves.  The  vibrations  of 
the  body  in  which  the  sound  has  its  origin  are  borne, 
through  the  medium  of  the  air,  to  my  external  ear, 
thence  to  the  middle  ear  or  tympanum,  and  thence 
to  the  internal  ear  or  labyrinth,  in  which  is  the  termi- 
nal of  the  auditory  nerve,  which  extends  to  the  brain» 
The  statement  is  simple;  but  as  the  sound-waves 
make  their  journey,  the  phenomenon  is  transformed; 
it  is  no  more  a  purely  physical  phenomenon,  it  has 
become  physiological,  though  it  still  remains  a  phe- 
nomenon of  motion.  The  vibrations  are  now  con- 
veyed through  the  highly  specialized  nervous  cellular 
tissue.  Still,  they  are  only  motion,  and  it  is  as 
waves,  that  is,  as  motion,  that  they,  by  means  of 
the  auditory  nerve,  reach  the  particular  organ  of  the 
brain  with  which  that  nerve  communicates*  There 
a  further  change  occurs.  In  my  brain  the  phenome- 
non is  again  transformed.  It  was  physiological ;  it 
becomes  psychological,  and  I  hear* 

In  hearing  I  perceive  sound,  not  motion.  Yet 
I  may  perceive  both  if  I  choose;  I  may  touch  a 
violin-string  and  feel  the  tingling,  quivering  sensation 

\34 


of  its  vibrations,  at  the  same  time  that  my  ear  trans-  ^^^  Bcstbetic  an5 

mits  a  perception  of  the  sound  of  that  string.     But    ^  "^  "^   "     "^  ^* 

would  the  vibrations  of  that  string  mean  sound  to 

the  sensoria  of  all  animated  creatures?    Science 

seems  to  tell  us  that  certain  insects  have  no  perception 

of  sound  except  as  a  sequence  of  shakes.   And  there 

arc  grounds  for  believing  that  some  animals  perceive 

as  sound,  vibrations  which  are  either  too  rapid  or  too 

slow  to  be  perceived  as  such  by  man :  just  as  the 

ultra-violet  and  ultra-red  rays  of  the  solar  spectrum 

are  not  seen  by  the  human  eye,  though  they  are  clearly 

evidenced  by  actinography.    Vibrations  slower  than 

forty  per  second,  and  more  rapid  than  thirty-eight 

thousand  per  second  arc  heard  with  difficulty  by 

man,  and  do  not  convey  a  true  tone-sensation.  Man's 

perception  of  such  slow  vibrations  is  perception  of 

motion  rather  than  of  sound*  But  do  all  vibrations,  do 

all  aerial  waves  produce  sound  ?    That  is  one  of  the 

unsolved  problems  of  science* 

What  effects  this  mysterious  transformation? 
The  spiritist  tells  me  that  it  is  effected  in  the  pass- 
age of  the  phenomenon  from  the  brain  to  the  spirit ; 
the  positivist  explains  that  it  is  merely  a  function  of 
the  brain*  Let  us  leave  them  to  their  conjectures 
and  pass  on  to  our  argument* 

The  aerial  waves,  transformed,  have  reached 
my  brain.  I  hear,  and  with  the  hearing  comes  a 
further  sensation — a  sensation,  perhaps,  of  pleasure* 

J  35 


Zbe  aestbetfc  anD  The   sensation   of  pleasure  which  any  given 

Splritualln Ausic.  .  ,  1.1.      xi.        r  i_ 

cause  arouses  m  me  may  be  one  or  the  other  01  two 

things,  a  sensuous  pleasure  or  a  spiritual  pleasure. 
The  sensuous  pleasure  depends  immediately  upon 
the  cause  which  has  produced  it,  which  has  been 
apprehended  by  the  inner  self  and  received  as  an 
agreeable  or  a  disagreeable  feeling.  If  the  sensations 
are  those  of  taste,  smell  or  touch,  no  scientific  dis- 
tinction can  be  made  between  the  agreeable  and  the 
disagreeable.  What  is  good  to  me  may  be  distaste- 
ful to  my  neighbor.  No  gourmet  can  by  scientific 
rule  prove  to  me  the  goodness  of  a  taste  I  dislike.  I 
abhor  the  scent  of  magnolia,  yet  many  people  think 
it  agreeable.  One  acquaintance  is  disagreeably 
affected  by  the  touch  of  very  smooth  surfaces, 
another  by  the  touch  of  rough  ones.  Who  is  right  ? 
None  can  decide.  We  are  wrapped  in  a  subjectivism 
from  which  no  science  can  free  us.  For  each  indi- 
vidual those  sensations  are  good  which  are  in  har- 
mony with  the  feeling  produced  by  the  activity  of  his 
whole  organism ;  and  in  judging  the  sensuous  pleas- 
ures of  taste,  smell  and  touch  we  can  perhaps  find 
no  better  rule  than  this — *  Good  is  not  what  is  good, 
but  what  is  pleasing.' 

May  we  apply  this  rule  to  the  pleasures  con- 
nected with  the  two  remaining  senses,  sight  and 
hearing  ?  Leaving  the  former  out  of  consideration, 
and  coming   directly  to   our  subject,  the  sense    of 

S36 


hearing;  the  answer  to  the  question  will  depend  on  ^^^  Beetbettc  ano 
our  ability  to  make  a  scientific  distinction  between 
sensations  of  hearing;  to  establish  a  criterion  by 
r  which  to  determine  what  sounds  should  give  pleasure 
and  what  should  not*  Consider  the  most  elementary 
principles  of  musical  sound,  and  see  whether  science 
points  out  to  us  one  sound  rather  than  another  as  of 
a  nature  to  cause  pleasure. 

Physical  science  fixes  with  exactness  every 
musical  tone  by  determining  experimentally  the  num- 
ber of  vibrations  of  which  it  is  the  result.  Thus 
every  tone  is,  in  a  sense,  a  number.  On  considering 
those  numbers  with  relation  to  each  other  it  is  per- 
ceived that  certain  of  them  stand  to  the  others  in  an 
arithmetical  ratio  more  or  less  near,  that  is,  are  more 
or  less  nearly  related,  while  certain  of  them  are  totally 
unrelated.  The  notes,  therefore,  represented  by  those 
numbers — ^the  notes  produced  by  vibrations  of  the 
rapidity  fixed  by  those  numbers — ought  to  be  related 
more  or  less  nearly,  or  totally  unrelated,  according 
as  the  numbers  are  related  or  unrelated*  And  a 
combination  of  tones  most  nearly  related  ought  to 
give  most  pleasure. 

The  related  tones  are  by  this  process  found  to 
be,  generally  speaking,  the  octave,  third  and  fifth, 
together  with  the  note  taken  as  a  basis  for  calcula- 
tion. A  combination  of  these  notes  ought  therefore 
to  afford  pleasure  to  the  ear ;  and  the  sensations  of  a 

J37 


XLbc  acstbctic  ano  hearer  should  range  from  the  maximum  of  pleasure 
spwtual  l„  *u6lc.  ^^^^  ^  ^^^^  j^,j  ^hord-the  maximum  of  conso- 

nance,  the  combination  of  tones  most  closely  related 
— ^to  the  disagreeable  sensation  produced  by  a  dis- 
sonance, a  combination  of  unrelated  tones. 

We  thus  find  some  reason  for  liking  certain 
combinations  and  for  disliking  others ;  and  this  rea- 
son holds  equally,  whether  the  hearer^s  sensations 
are  or  are  not  what  this  rule  indicates  they  should  be. 
For  instance,  one  may  determine  experimentally  cer- 
tain related  notes  which,  sounded  together,  should 
cause  him  pleasure ;  but  his  actual  sensation  may  be 
utterly  at  variance  with  what  he  perceives  he  ought 
to  feel.  He  should  like  a  combination  of  related 
tones,  he  should  dislike  those  unrelated ;  but  a  pure 
harmony  may  be  to  him  nothing  but  noise,  and  he 
may  be  equally  unaffected  by  a  discord. 

Again,  the  pleasure  of  a  hearer  varies  with  the 
quality  of  the  tone ;  and  tone-quality  depends  upon 
^  the  addition  of  harmonics, — related  notes  which  are 

called^lJinto  being  by  the  sounding  of  the  funda- 
mental note,  and  which  blend  with  it.  To  the  num- 
ber and  relative  strength  of  these  harmonics  tone- 
quality  is  due,  and  we  should  expect  to  find  most 
pleasure  in  hearing  that  tone  richest  in  harmonics, 
that  tone  evoking  the  greatest  number  of  related 
tones.  But  while  such  should  be  the  sensation  of  a 
hearer,  he  may  be  in  fact  indifferent  to  a  tone  which 

158 


this  rule  shows  to  be  beautiful,  and  may  receive  a  ^^^  Hestbcttc  an^ 
sensation  of  pleasure  on  hearing  a  vulgar,  strident,  »P  "^  ^"^^  ^"  *w^^c. 
blatant  or  throaty  tone  from  instrument  or  voice. 

When  we  pass  from  the  single  note  or  chord  to 
notes  sounded  consecutively,  a  further  condition  con- 
fronts us.  Notes  may  be  sounded  one  after  the  other 
irregularly,  at  haphazard,  or  there  may  be  a  mathe- 
matical symmetry  by  which  each  haB  its  value  of 
duration  with  relation  to  every  other  that  precedes, 
accompanies,  or  follows  it.  They  may  thus  be 
grouped  into  bars  or  parts  of  bars,  into  phrases,  or 
successions  of  bars,  into  movements  or  portions  of 
movements,  successions  of  phrases,  and  so  on.  And 
a  symmetrical  grouping  ought  to  give  more  pleasure 
to  the  hearer  than  any  mere  chance  arrangement. 
Yet  he  may  be  unresponsive  to  symmetry  and 
unable  even  to  keep  time  to  a  march  played  by  a 
brass  band* 

We  know  that  no  intellectual  process  can  give 
this  idea  of  pitch,  this  discrimination  of  tone-quali- 
ties, or  this  sense  of  rhythm.  Yet  these  faculties — 
certainly  the  first  and  last — are  essential  to  every  lis- 
tener who  would  perceive  the  beauty  of  what  he 
hears.  The  sensation  of  sound  is  not  to  be  ruled  by 
subjectivism  like  that  of  smell.  It  is  only  when 
affected  by  sensations  produced  in  us  through  the 
medium  of  hearing  or  of  sight  that  we  use  the  term 
Beauty*    We  cannot  call  beautiful  those  things  which 


Zbc  Hestbctic  anD  seem  beautiful  to  us,  unless  they  obey  a  rule  out- 
GptrftuallnflSusic.  ^.^^  ^^  ^^^     q^^  perception  of  beauty  is  controUed 

not  merely  by  subjective  appreciation,  differing 
from  individual  to  individual,  but  by  fixed  and 
objective  law* 

*  I  never  could  understand,*  said  Richard  Cobden 
to  D^Azeglio,  during  a  concert  given  in  Florence  in 
honor  of  the  great  economist, — *  I  never  could  under- 
stand what  sort  of  pleasure  people  find  in  all  this 
noisy  thumping  and  grating/  And  clearly  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  understand.  Like  many  other 
clever  men  he  associated  no  psychical  activity  with 
the  simple  sensation  of  hearing. 

We  find  accordingly  that  a  perception  of  pitch — 
relative  pitch,  that  is,  or  the  ability  to  determine 
whether  notes  are  played  or  sung  in  tune, — ^and  a 
sense  of  rhythm,  or  time,  are  and  must  be  the  inheri- 
tance of  every  one  who  would  listen  to  music  and 
judge  its  beauty.  Here  we  are  lifted  above  mere 
sensation,  since  these  things  cannot  be  apprehended 
by  sensation  alone,  but  must  be  perceived  by  one  of 
those  elements  of  thought  which  Emanuel  Kant  calls 
pare*  As  these  faculties,  if  possessed,  have  been,  in 
substance,  always  possessed,  as  no  element  of  experi- 
ence is  mingled  with  our  original  possession  of  them, 
and  as  when  originally  entirely  lacking  they  cannot 
be  acquired,  they  may  be  considered  to  be  what  Kant 
denominated  pure  intuitions* 

HO 


Wc  arc  now  on  the  borders  of  the  realm  of  JJ'f  ,»«stpetfc  an^ 
__       .„      .       .  ...  SpfrftualinAusic. 

music,     Wc  will  only  glance  withm. 

When  a  musical  composition  is  heard  as  a  com- 
position,— ^as  something  more  than  a  combination  or 
succession  of  notes  produced  in  rhythm, — there  are 
blended  with  the  primitive  sensation,  and  with  the 
intuitive  element,  both  of  which  wc  have  considered, 
countless  new  psychical  elements,  differing  from  indi- 
vidual to  individual.  The  higher  the  percipient  ele- 
ment of  aesthetical  enjoyment  in  the  hearer, — ^that  is, 
the  greater  the  activity  of  his  thought, — the  greater 
this  resultant  pleasure ;  but  it  is  always  an  aestheti- 
cal pleasure,  never  entirely  sensuous,  if  he  possesses 
the  essential  intuitive  qualities.  Does  your  neigh- 
bor tap  his  foot  in  a  futile  effort  at  time  when  the 
band  plays  *  Yankee  Doodle,^  and  does  he  slumber 
through  a  symphony?  Then  perhaps  he  prefers 
corned  beef  and  cabbage  on  a  deal  table  to  a  dinner 
with  LucuUus. 

Yet  wc  are  still  only  part  way  on  our  road  to 
complete  spiritual  enjoyment  of  music.  Our  primi- 
tive sensation,  acted  upon  and  transformed,  first  by 
our  intuitive  faculties,  and  still  further  by  our  psychi- 
cal elements,  has  resulted  in  perceptions.  The  per- 
ceptions, thus  aroused  are,  by  the  mental  activity, 
transformed  and  remodelled  into  concepts,  and  these 
concepts  may  in  a  thousand  ways  be  united  or 

m 


JLbe  aestbetlc  ano  opposed  by  the  endless  working   of  the   power  of 
Splrdual  in  /Busic.       ,     ,       , 

ratiocination* 

And  herein  lies  the  point.  The  hearer  will  not  find 
spiritual  beauty  in  music  unless  he  himself  possesses 
those  intuitive  qualities  and  those  psychical  elements 
which  enable  him  to  perceive  it,  and  unless  he  rises 
above  the  merely  sensuous  impression*  And  he  will 
not  find  it  except  as  he  finds  the  expression  of  a  con- 
cept ;  as  such  alone  can  beauty  spiritual  exist* 

Fine  arts  can  claim  that  name  only  as  they  give 

'expression  to  a  concept.     Not  every  art  is  equally 

apt  to  express  a  definite  idea,  as  painting,  sculpture 

and  poetry  can.    It  is  not  given  to  all  of  them  to 

I  express  all  sorts  of  ideas. 

Architecture  is  more  vague  in  meaning  than 
poetry ;  but  are  we  to  say  that  it  has  no  meaning, 
that  its  beauty  cannot  be  expressed  in  concept  ?  Con- 
sider for  instance  the  gorgeous  church  of  the  Annun- 
fziata  in  Florence.  For  all  its  gorgeousness  it  lacks 
'that  concept  of  a  temple  which  the  Cathedral  of 
Santa  Maria  del  Fiore,  notwithstanding  its  bareness, 
embodies. 

Is  not  the  meaning  of  music  more  definite  than 
that  of  architecture  ?  And  must  not  music  disclose 
its  spiritual  beauty  by  the  expression  of  concept  ? 

In  the  mind  of  the  creator  of  the  music  the  con- 
cept arises,  and  through  the  expression  which  he 

J42 


gives  it,  through  the  perfonnance  it  receives,  and  ^^^  aestbetlc  anD 

through  the  mind  of  the  hearer,  it  is  imparted  exactly 

or  approximately, — ^the  cause  and  the  effect  of  the 

noblest  psychical  activities  of  composer,  performer 

and  listener*    When  the  concept  is  thus  expressed 

and  thus  perceived,  the  hearing  of  music  is 

something  more  than  a  sensation;  it 

is  truly  and  really  an  aesthet- 

ical,  a  spiritual,  pleasure* 


w 


J43 


EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 


'EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS    ^    ^    <^    ^ 

HEN  a  man  has  written  books, 
which,  of  all  books  written  in  his 
own  language,  arc  the  most  widely 
read;  when  he  sees  them  trans- 
lated into  other  languages  and 
praised  all  over  the  world ;  when 
the  profits  earned  by  this  work  of 
his  pen  far  transcend  the  most  san- 
guine hopes  of  any  other  writer  in 
his  country;  when  critics  have 
been  hymning  dulcet  strains  of  mild 
praise,  and  readers  of  all  classes, 
gentle  and  simple,  old  and  young 
alike,  have  been  faithfully  buying 
the  whole  long  series  of  his  vol- 
umes as  they  issued  from  the 
presses;  does  he  not  seem  justly  en- 
titled to  rank  as  a  great  master  of 
his  profession  and  a  genuine  artist? 
I  Yet  we  doubt  if  Edmondo  de  Amicis 
is  a  great  master  in  literature  or 
even  a  genuine  literary  artist. 

His  power  of  arresting  the 
attention  and  arousing  the  interest 
of  the  reader  is  conceded.  His 
quickness  of  perception  and  his 
exquisite  moral  sensibility,  responsive  to  all  noble 
emotions  is  admitted.  He  can  picture  a  landscape 
better  than  any  other  living  prose  writer  of  Italy ; 


BOmonOo  as  a  stylist  he  is  inferior  only  to  a  few  of  his  Italian 
*  contemporaries;  and  he  has  the  knack  of  making 
something  out  of  nothing — of  winding  off  page  after 
page  of  pleasant  reading  upon  the  most  trifling 
matters.  Turning  his  pages,  one  easily  grows  into 
a  liking  for  the  author;  pleased  with  his  buoyant 
hopefulness,  convinced  of  his  genuine  sincerity ;  yet 
all  the  time  conscious  that  something  is  wanting  to 
our  perfect  satisfaction,  something  which  none  but 
the  really  great  writer  can  impart.  Wherein  lies 
the  fault? 

A  careful  examination  of  the  work  of  De  Amicis 
will  reveal  why,  liking  it  so  well,  nevertheless  it  does 
not  satisfy. 

The  year  of  revolutions,  1848,  was  critical  for 
Italy ;  her  divided  populations  aspired  to  freedom  and 
national  unity ;  it  was  a  time  when  high  hopes  were 
entertained  of  a  complete  Italian  renaissance — politi- 
cal, religious,  social,  moral,  intellectual.  Milan 
threw  off  the  yoke  of  the  Hapsburgs ;  Carlo  Alberto 
cast  the  weight  of  his  sword  into  the  balance  in  favor 
of  the  popular  aspirations ;  a  Pope  stood  forth  as  sign 
and  proof  of  the  Church's  sympathy  with  the  na- 
tional sentiment;  young  Italy  dreamt  dreams  and 
entertained  confident  hopes  that  were  not  to  be  real- 
ized, but  while  the  generous  illusion  lasted,  the 
skies  seemed  to  promise  an  eternal  Springtide,  a  new 
birth  and  a  rejuvenescence  of  the  race  which  once 

148 


been  the  world^s  master.    Into  this  moral  atmos-  ®nefliia,2)eamlcte' 

phere  was  DcAmicis  born;  and  the  warmth  and 
enthusiasm  of  that  day-spring  of  liberty  in  Italy 
wrapped  his  infant  soul  and  stamped  it  with  the 
character  of  perennial  youthfulness  and  antique 
Roman  simplicity. 

His  birthplace,  Oneglia,  has  little  fame  in  his- 
tory. It  was  founded  early  in  the  tenth  century  and 
till  the  end  of  the  thirteenth  belonged  to  the  bishopric 
of  Albenga ;  then  for  near  three  hundred  years  it  was 
a  dependency  of  the  Duchy  of  Genoa,  and  then  the 
Dorias  sold  it  to  Emanuel  Philibert,  Duke  of  Savoy, 
*in  J  576 ;  in  the  fortunes  of  war  thereafter  it  changed 
'masters  repeatedly,  as  Savoyard  or  Spanish  or 
Genoese  or  French  arms  or  craft  prevailed.  It  is  a 
snug  little  town  of  7000  or  8000  inhabitants,  cozily 
ensconced  amid  the  hills  bordering  its  bay  in  the 
Ligurian  sea.  Its  chief  architectural  monument  is  a 
noble  church  edifice,  San  Giovanni  Battista,  designed 
by  Gaetano  Amoretti.  The  olive  plantations  of 
Oneglia  and  the  adjoining  town  and  district  of  Porto 
Maurizio  yield  the  finest  oil  exported  from  Italy.  It 
is  a  picturesque  iregion,  bright  with  a  variegated 
wealth  of  flowers,  but  with  a  soil  that  yields  scant 
returns  to  the  labor  of  the  husbandman.  Such  is 
Oneglia,  famous  of  old  as  the  birthplace  of  the  great 
Genoese  admiral  Andrea  Doria  and  in  our  time  of 
the  genial,  kindly  novelist  Edmondo  de  Amicis. 

H9 


©f  Bmicte!  Edmondo  was  intended  by  his  parents  for  a 
*  soldier,  and  his  education  was  completed  at  the  mili- 
tary school  of  Modena.  Such  a  special  training 
means,  the  world  over,  short  measure  of  classical  or 
literary  study,  and  his  scholarly  attainments  at  gradu- 
ation were  neither  more  nor  less  than  those  of  the 
average  military  cadet. 

As  an  officer  in  the  army  he  first  saw  active 
service  in  the  battle  of  Custozza,  and  with  the  na- 
tional army  tasted  the  bitterness  of  defeat  on  that  dis- 
astrous day  when  no  degree  of  personal  courage 
could  compensate  for  inefficient  leadership.  The 
campaign  which  followed  opened  with  the  most  bril- 
liant prospects,  but  a  series  of  reverses  ensued,  which 
gave  weight  to  the  dark  insinuations  whispered 
against  the  leaders  in  this  ill-managed  war.  De 
Amicis  had  shared  in  the  high  hopes  entertained  of 
the  spirit  and  efficiency  of  the  army  and  he  shared 
also  in  its  reverses;  but  no  shame  of  unmerited  de- 
feat, through  the  incompetency  or  the  treachery  of 
the  commanders,  could  shake  his  confidence  in  the 
soundness  of  the  national  cause  or  abate  his  loyalty 
to  his  king;  indeed  his  attachment  to  the  military 
profession  grew  with  the  disgraces  which  had 
befallen  the  army. 

From  J  867  to  1870  he  was  in  the  garrison  at 
Florence,  and  employed  his  leisure  hours  in  writing 
short  stories  for  the  periodical  *  Italia  Militarc',  of 

150 


which  later  he  became  editor.     His  'Novelle'  and  *^«  Storica 

his  *Bo2zetti  Militari'  appeared  first  in  that  journal 

and  were  instantly  received  with  public  favor.    They 

were  then  published  in  volumes;  and  as  the  editions 

were  speedily  exhausted,  he  recognized  in  that  fact  a 

sort  of  call  to  a  literary  career,  and  soon  he  resigned 

his  commission* 

He  has  told  us,  in  his  naivCf  artless  manner,  of 
his  hesitation  before  taking  this  step.  He  had  scru- 
ples of  hault  courage,  thinking  that  'none  but  master- 
minds have  the  right  to  renounce  the  active  life,  and 
to  presume  that,  by  giving  forth  their  thoughts  in 
writing,  they  may  pay  the  debt  every  man  owes  to 
society.'  He  modestly  considered,  however,  that 
even  very  humble  and  simple  souls  have  wants  and 
aspirations  which  none  but  a  congenial  spirit  can 
understand;  and  he  believed  that  he  might  give  utter- 
ance to  their  unspoken  sentiments,  and  direct  upon 
their  grievances  the  current  of  human  sympathy. 
From  that  moment  the  history  of  his  books  is  the 
history  of  his  life.  He  goes  abroad  and  gives  us  the 
Journal  of  his  travels  in  the  volumes  *  Spain/, 
' Morocco ^  'The  Netherlands',  'London',  and 
'  Paris'.  At  every  return  home  he  finds  his  fame 
and  popularity  ever  greater ;  so  he  feels  encouraged 
to  attempt  new  work,  as  in  'Cuore',  'Alle  Porte 
d'ltalia',  and  'Gli  Amici'.  His  'SuII  Oceano'^ 
a  lively   record   of  a  voyage  to  America,  reveals 


£j>mon5o  the  author's  sympathy  for  socialistic  doctrines. 
*  In  this  voyage  De  Amicis  had  an  opportunity  to 
observe  the  condition  of  emigrants,  and  his  interest 
in  their  fortunes  is  awakened.  At  home,  he  studies 
the  life-problems  of  schoolmasters  and  schoolmis- 
tresses, and  the  results  of  his  observation  are  found 
in  the  works  *Fra  Scuola  e  Casa'  and  in  *II 
Romanzo  d'  un  Maestro'. 

Since  he  first  entered  on  the  literary  career  his 
social  and  political  views  have  undergone  a  change, 
which  has  been  differently  judged  by  the  supporters 
of  opposing  schools  of  political  doctrine ;  but  no  one 
has  ever  challenged  his  absolute  sincerity.  His 
Italianist  patriotism  and  his  more  or  less  cosmopolite 
socialism  are  but  two  aspects  of  his  generous,  hopeful 
nature;  he  has  no  rancor  for  the  class  which  he 
regards  as  the  oppressors  of  the  mass  of  the  popula- 
tion ;  but  he  believes  that  their  rule  is  coming  to  an 
end,  and  that  a  new  era  of  peace  and  justice  is 
coming. 

He  labors  for  redress  of  wrongs,  without 
invoking  vengeance  upon  the  doers  of  wrong.  He 
has  thus  been  consistent  with  himself  throughout, 
whether  he  glorifies  militarism  or  lauds  the  blessings 
of  peace,  whether  he  exalts  the  royal  throne  or  pleads 
the  cause  of  the  lowly  millions ;  he  never  veers  with 
the  wind  of  opportunism,  but  is  always  responsive  to 
the  cry  of  the  distressed. 

J52 


In  a  parliamentary  crisis  he  was  induced  to  ]^^  Bmlds' 
stand  for  election  to  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  as  a 
representative  for  Turin ;  but  on  being  elected  he  was 
unwilling  to  bear  the  responsibility  and  resigned  the 
deputyship.  Indeed,  in  disposition  and  temperament 
he  is  ill-fitted  to  be  a  wrestler  in  the  parliamentary 
arena. 

It  is  a  fast  popular  belief  among  the  Italians  that 
some  persons  are  bom  lucky,  others  unlucky.  It 
were  doubtless  nearer  the  truth  to  say  that  in  the 
struggle  for  life  a  man  is  generally  victor  or  van- 
quished according  to  the  measure  of  his  pluck,  per- 
severance and  good  sense.  If  success  is  a  matter  of 
good  luck,  then  De  Amicis  is  to  be  reckoned  a  lucky 
man.  But  the  secret  of  his  constant  good  fortune 
lies,  possibly,  in  the  fact  that  he  has  never  aimed 
too  high,  never  undertaken  to  do  that  which  he  was 
not  fitted  by  nature  to  do ;  good  luck  is  sometimes 
only  another  name  for  good  sense. 

From  the  outset  of  his  literary  career  he  has 
been  conscious  of  his  power  and  of  his  limitations. 
At  first  he  wisely  confined  himself  to  the  only  sub- 
ject with  which  he  was  conversant — military  life. 
Meanwhile  he  did  his  utmost  to  compensate  for  his 
initial  deficiency,  his  want  of  a  sofid  classical  educa- 
tion, so  necessary  to  a  man  who  would  write  pure 
and  elegant  Italian.  To  an  extended  course  of  mis- 
cellaneous   reading  he  added  a  careful    study  |of 

J53 


Fanfani^s  VocabotariOf  and  bent  all  his  efforts  to  the 
acquisition  of  a  refined  literary  style* 

His  long  residence  in  Florence  was  of  decisive 
moment  in  fitting  him  for  eminent  rank  in  Italian 
letters.  Like  his  greater  countryman,  Manzoni,  he 
was  aware  that  a  Lombard  *  must  needs  wash  his 
garments  in  Arno's  wave/  The  rude  dialects 
spoken  in  the  north  of  Italy,  or  worse,  the  idiom  of 
barracks  and  camps,  receive  scant  toleration  in 
Italian  literature;  and  De  Amicis  was  practically 
under  the  necessity  of  learning  literary  Italian,  a 
new  language.  A  comparison  of  his  earliest  with 
his  latest  writings  will  show  how  much  he  had  to 
learn  and  to  unlearn. 

Yet,  despite  their  provincial  dialecticism,  his  first 
writings,  the  *  Novelle  *  and  the  *  Bozzetti  Militari  * 
were  hailed  with  delight  all  over  the  land.  The  chord 
of  patriotism  was  still  vibrant  in  every  Italian  heart, 
and  with  it  De  Amicis*  strain  was  fully  accordant. 
Diplomacy  did  more  than  arms  to  bring  about  the 
happy  consummation — Italian  independence.  But 
the  end  having  been  secured  somehow,  anyhow,  and 
the  people  being  now  liberated  from  foreign  bondage 
and  united  under  a  popular  monarch,  the  army, 
which  had,  though  indisciplined  and  ill-led,  striven 
valorously  to  achieve  independence,  was,  for  the 
many,  an  object  of  patriotic  pride ;  and  the  praises 
lavished  on  the  soldiers  who  had  laid  down  their 

\S4 


lives  in  their  country^s  cause,  were  grateful  to  their  2>c  amicis 
companions   m  arms   and  their  countrymen,  and 
were  not  too  scrupulously  weighed* 

In  truth,  the  heroes  of  those  battles  as  portrayed 
by  De  Amicis  were  mostly  of  a  kind  which  does  not 
stand  criticism  unscathed*     His  soft-hearted  officers 
and  thick-brained  devoted  soldiers,  are  not  real  flesh 
and  bones,  to  be  turned  round  and  viewed  from 
every  side  and  studied  like  living,  throbbing  human- 
ity ;  they  are  of  such  unsubstantial  stuff  as  dreams 
are  made  of,  images  reflected  by  a  mirror,  rather 
than  men.     Our  author^s  writings  at  this  period 
present   an  indifferently  accurate  portraiture  of  the 
outside,  but  of  the  soul,  spirit,  character  within,  not 
a  glimpse.     The  fault  was  hardly  detected  by  his 
countrymen,  because  the  same  slurring  of  psycho- 
logical analysis  is  usual  in  modern  Italian  literature. 
Liveliness  of  conception  and  keenness  of  apprecia- 
tion of  the   beautiful   in   nature  we  find  in  these 
Southern  artists ;  but  that  very  gift  disqualifies  them 
for  minute   observation   of  the  hidden   springs  of 
action.     Psychological  analysis  has  seldom  proved 
attractive    to    these    life-enjoying,  pleasure-seeking 
Italians.    In  examining  the  more  recent  productions 
of  Italian  painters  and  sculptors,  we  are  struck  by 
the  absence  of  any  suggestive  or  deep-lying  inten- 
tion. They  are  clever  artists,  skilled  artisans.  They 
understand  the  harmony  of  colors  and  the  purity  of 

J55 


BOmonDo  lines.  Their  benches  and  chisels  are  in  their  hands 
e  m  c  0.  pjj^j^^  ^QQjg  ^Q  prcxiuce  the  effects  conceived  in  the 
artists'  minds.  Their  works  please  the  eye  and  the 
fancy;  they  excite  admiration;  but  they  do  not 
make  us  think.  The  beautiful  masterpiece  has  not 
been  meditated  deeply  enough,  and  hence  does  not 
tempt  us  to  search  into  its  innermost  meaning,  and 
to  trace  its  genesis  back  to  the  primal  idea  in  the 
artist's  mind.  And  this  is  true  of  Italian  artistic 
expression,  alike  in  painting  and  sculpture,  music 
and  literature. 

In  the  works  of  De  Amicis  we  find  this  want  of 
spiritual  or  psychological  depth,  yet  rare  skill  of 
artisanship  withal.  As  critics  have  pointed  out,  his 
effeminate  officers  are  always  ready,  on  the  slightest 
provocation,  to  shed  a  tear  or  utter  sentimental 
bathos;  but  at  the  same  time  we  are  required  to 
believe  that  in  the  stress  of  battle  they  are  veritable 
lion-hearts  always.  Unacquainted  as  we  are  with 
the  intimate  life  of  young  officers,  we  will  grant  that 
Dc  Amicis  relates  correctly  the  doings  and  sayings  of 
his  young  officer  heroes;  we  only  ask  that  he  shall 
help  us  to  recognize  their  doings  and  sayings;  we 
wish  to  have  the  impression  removed  from  our  mind 
that  these  figures  of  young  officers  are  only  puppets. 
When  Kipling's  Mulvaney  and  his  comrades  sit 
around  a  fire,  discussing  their  own  and  their  officers' 
affairs,  we  get  such  intimate  acquaintance  with  those 

156 


rude,  honest,  pretudiced  hearts  that  we  easily  read  2>«  Hmicis 
their  motives  and  interpret  their  actions;  but  when 
De  Amicis,  in  the  'Figlio  del  Reggimento%  shows 
us  a  group  of  lusty  young  officers  fondling  and  pet- 
ting a  little  street  urchin,  stroking  his  unkempt  locks 
and  gushing  over  him  with  long  speeches  of  motherly 
tenderness,  our  feeling  is  rather  one  of  disgust  than 
of  sympathy;  one  cannot  regard  such  a  scene  as  true 
to  nature  and  fact. 

*CarmeIa%  the  prettiest  of  these  short  tales  of 
the  *Vita  Militare*,  is  the  melancholy  story  of  a 
peasant  girl,  heartbroken  and  demented  in  conse- 
qence  of  an  unhappy  love  affair  with  an  officer.  She 
lives  in  a  dreary  islet  inhabited  only  by  some  scores 
of  convicts  and  a  small  military  guard.  This  rustic 
Ophelia's  chief  delusion  consists  in  mistaking  for  her 
false  lover  every  officer  who  succeeds  him*  How  a 
youthful  lieutenant  is  moved  to  pity  for  the  unhappy 
girl;  how  pity  changes  to  love;  and  how  he  con- 
trives to  cure  her  of  her  insanity  by  re-enacting,  in 
every  particular,  the  scene  of  her  first  lover's  depart- 
ure. All  this  is  told  with  ingenuity.  As  we  read, 
we  grow  curious  to  learn  how  this  novel  experiment 
will  result;  but  all  the  time  we  are  conscious  that 
these  far-fetched  emotions,  these  extravagant  moral 
feelings,  this  unreal  world  of  sentimentality,  has  no 
point  of  contact  with  our  own  moral  world;  and 
that  the  actors  in  the  scene  are  shadowy  creations  of 


J57 


BDmon5o  the  author's  mind,  not  human  creatures.  Their 
sorrows  or  their  joys  are  not  our  sorrows  or  our 
joys.  The  scenery,  the  landscape,  the  figures,  we 
clearly  distinguish;  but  the  souls  animating  these 
puppets  are  for  us  enigmatical*  Even  if  the  story  be 
founded  on  fact,  it  is  presented  in  such  guise  that  to 
us  it  appears  as  a  creation  of  fancy. 

If  we  use  the  word  Poet  in  its  primary  signifi- 
cance of  creator,  De  Amicis  will  have  no  claim  to 
that  title;  but  if  by  Poet  we  mean  one  highly  gifted 
with  imagination  and  fancy,  De  Amicis  has  about 
the  same  right  to  the  appellation  as,  say,  Coppee  or 
Felicia  Hemans. 

While  he  possesses  in  liberal  measure  the  imagi- 
nation and  the  fancy  of  the  poet.  Nature  has  denied 
him  the  primum  mobile  of  all  poetic  genius, — restless, 
passionate  desire  of  realizing  an  ideal.  De  Amicis  is 
blessed  with  a  healthy,  joyous,  one  is  tempted  to  say, 
a  bovine  contentment.  He  lacks  the  stimulus  of  a 
passionate  desire  for  higher  and  highest  things;  it 
never  occurs  to  him  that  he  must  Mook  before  and 
after  and  pine  for  what  is  not.'  To  his  eyes  come 
no  visions  of  a  supernal,  an  ideal  world.  Poets  have 
been  great  only  when  they  have  agonized;  painters 
and  sculptors  have  created  immortal  masterpieces, 
when,  comparing  their  dream  of  the  Beautiful  with 
their  surroundings,  they  have  blended  harmoniously 
the  outer  and  the  inner  vision.    This  power  of 

158 


conceiving  an  ideal,  actuated  by  an  impulse  to  express  2)s»miclg'  Ximfta- 
it  in  words,  lines,  colors  or  musical  sounds,  will  ^^  ^  °^  * 
make  a  great  writer  out  of  a  plowman,  will  frame 
the  divinest  of  musicians  out  of  a  deaf  man,  and  will 
fashion  a  world-famous  preacher  out  of  an  uncouth 
fanatic.  Dante  is  the  greatest  of  Italian  poets, 
because  none  agonized  as  he  did  to  give  expression 
to  ideas  from  the  supernal  world  of  the  spirit. 

Now,  De  Amicis  has  never  been  tempted  to 
meddle  with  spiritual  problems ;  the  heights  and  the 
depths  of  poetic  and  philosophic  contemplation  are 
ignored  by  him;  he  is  concerned  only  with  the 
interests  of  the  passing  day,  and  he  amuses  the  pass- 
ing generation ;  his  works  are  for  present  consump- 
tion ;  none  of  them  is  *  a  possession  for  ever/ 

For  him,  religious  belief,  as  is  often  the  case 
with  his  countrymen,  is  a  matter  of  no  importance. 
He  does  not  care  to  make  profession  of  atheism ;  he 
just  pays  a  pretty  compliment  or  two  to  Providence 
in  his  earliest  writings,  and  there  an  end. 

Had  De  Amicis  been  bom  a  few  years  earlier, 
he  might,  fired  with  patriotic  enthusiasm,  have  sung 
with  Berchet,  if  not  with  higher-soaring  Niccolini, 
the  golden  vision  of  Italian  liberty.  That  dream  is 
now  realized,  and,  like  many  other  realized  dreams, 
has  lost  much  of  its  dreamland  brilliance.  Italy  has 
been  freed  from  the  Austrian  yoke  and  from  the 
oppression  of  native  tyrants,  and  no  longer  requires 

J59 


B5mon&o  the  services  of  her  sons  on  the  field  of  battle ;  the 
*  task  set  to  the  present  generation  is  to  educate  this 
newly  united  people  and  to  contrive  means  of  mak- 
ing the  nation  better  morally,  socially  and  economic- 
ally. De  Amicis  has  given  his  best  endeavors 
toward  forwarding  these  ends;  the  dominant  note  of 
all  his  writings  is  the  sentiment  of  Italian  nationality. 

The  other  affections  predominating  in  his  soul 
are  an  exquisite,  almost  feminine,  tenderness  for  his 
mother,  and  an  accurate  perception  and  appreci- 
ation of  the  many  shades  of  friendship.  These,  he 
has,  in  his  several  works,  rendered  with  appropriate 
delicacy  and  clearness;  these  feelings  are  not 
dramatic ;  they  grow  to  full  blossom  and  fade  away 
without  ever  provoking  passionate  struggle.  We 
may  be  interested  in  the  description  of  such  senti- 
ments, but  we  are  neither  stirred  in  our  own  souls 
nor  brought  into  communion  with  the  soul  of  the 
writer. 

Even  socialism  becomes  with  him  a  bland 
aspiration  for  the  amelioration  of  society,  unmixed 
with  any  idea  of  warring  against  unfavorable  envi- 
ronment, M.  De  Amicis  is  peculiarly  lucky, — or 
wise, — in  this:  he  knows  his  power  and  his  weak- 
ness. He  never  tests  the  strength  of  his  wing  by 
attempting  a  soaring  flight,  but  is  satisfied  with 
warbling  his  dainty  sonnets  and  clearly  modulated 
epistles  of  simple  sweetness* 

\60 


Among  the  poetical  works  of  De  Amicis,  the  best  ^^^  Sonnets  of 
of  his  sonnets  are  those  inspired  by  the  ardent  patriot-  ®'  *"""*• 
ism  of  his  early  years,  Come  vorrei  morire  ♦  .  . 
(how  I  wish  to  die)  being  the  most  popular.  The 
idea  is  indeed  trite,  but  it  is  expressed  with  grace  and 
in  a  manly  spirit.  In  the  two  sonnets  entitled  La. 
Grandenata  (the  hailstorm),  the  poet  with  a  few 
simple  but  effective  touches  realizes  for  the  memory 
and  imagination  of  any  one  who  has  lived  in  north- 
ern Italy  the  phenomena  of  one  of  those  brief,  angry 
and  ruinous  storms  not  infrequent  in  that  region. 

De  Amicis'  filial  tenderness  is  delicately  ex- 
pressed in  a  sonnet  beginning  with  praise  of  his 
mother^s  beauty  and  ending  with  the  wish  that  he 
might,  by  himself  growing  old  in  an  instant,  see  his 
mother  young  once  more,  at  the  price  of  his  self- 
sacrifice. 

If  delicacy  of  feeling  and  exquisite  poetic  form 
were  all  that  we  require  in  a  poet,  then  De  Amicis 
musf  be  accounted  a  genuine  poet;  but  the  poet's 
bays  are  not  so  easily  won^  He  possesses  neither 
that  knowledge  of  the  heart  of  humanity  which  was 
the  heritage  of  Shakspeare,  nor  does  he  perceive  the 
soul  of  nature  as  does  Wordsworth;  neither  has  his 
spirit  travailed  with  personal  sorrow  as  did  that  of 
Leopardi  when  he  wrote  Le  Remembranzet  nor 
has  he  been  maddened  by  the  black  vision  of  some 
national  wrong  as  was  Niccolini  when  he  summed 


B5monoo  yp  the  misery  of  Italy  in  his  *AmaIdo  da  Brescia*. 
To  return  to  the  prose  works  of  De  Amicis,  and 
in  particular  to  his  stories  of  military  life,  we  readily 
see  why  these  fail  to  awaken  our  interest;  we  do  not 
take  his  military  characters  au  serieax*  We  cannot 
bring  ourselves  to  believe  that  those  officers  and 
troopers  of  a  generation  ago  were,  every  man  and 
boy  of  them,  in  all  circumstances  absolute  stoics, 
counterparts  of  Socrates  at  Delium.  Did  De  Amicis 
never  hear  of  officers  committing  suicide  rather  than 
obey  commands  they  knew  to  be  cruel  and  dishonor- 
able? But  our  author's  military  characters  know 
nothing  of  the  conflict  between  conscience  and  neces- 
sity, between  duty  and  possibility;  these  impossible 
automations,  having  received  the  word  of  command, 
always  on  the  instant  proceed  to  execute  it,  as 
blindly  obedient  as  the  subject  of  a  mesmerizer* 

In  *  Camilla' — one  of  his  'Novelle' — he  shows 
us  a  young  conscript  who  resorts  to  mutilation  to 
escape  from  duty  in  the  army.  This  poor  wretch  is 
painted  in  the  darkest  colors ;  the  author  takes  such 
pains  to  bring  public  odium  upon  this  worst  kind  of 
malingerers  that  he  effectually  quells  any  feeling  of 
compassion  one  might  have  for  the  unhappy  wretch. 
No  extenuating  circumstance  is  allowed  to  have  any 
weight  in  excusation,  no  mercy  is  shown  for  the  cul- 
prit. Dostoiesky  can  have  sympathy  with  the  vulgar 
murderer;  but  De  Amicis  would  deny  all  the  offices 

J62 


of  humanity  to  the  offender  against  the  military  2>e  amfcis'  »ooh0 
f  of  ^Travel, 

laws. 

The  records  of  travel — *  Morocco',  *  Spaing 
'Holland',  and  'Souvenirs  of  Paris  and  London' — 
are  the  most  valuable  of  the  works  of  De  Amicis. 
In  these  his  talents  find  free  scope,  and  his  limitations 
and  his  temperamental  defects  are  less  obvious.  He 
looks  around  him  with  the  keen  glance  and  quick 
perception  of  all  Italian  artists,  and  describes  his 
impressions  in  a  charming,  lively  style.  He  is  a 
delightful  raconteaff  himself  deeply  interested  in  all 
the  strange  and  novel  experiences  of  travel  in  foreign 
lands,  and  awakening  an  interest  no  less  lively  in  his 
readers*  As  we  turn  these  entertaining  pages  over 
one  is  continually  reminded  of  raconteurs  of  like 
gifts,  encountered  in  many yan  out-of-the-way  corner 
of  Italy;  genial  natures,  ^ho  will  talk  for  the  sake 
of  talking,  will  laugh  at  their  own  jokes,  smile  at 
their  own  conceits,/and  altogether  amuse  themselves 
so  heartily  that  they  seldom  fail  to  amuse  their 
hearers. 

De  Amicis  never  takes  a  short  cut  through  any 
subject  or  narrative;  he  never  hurries  along  the 
main  road,  but  follows  every  promising  by-path, 
lingering  wherever  the  vista  invites,  describing 
minutely  not  only  the  things  he  sees,  but  the  dreams 
they  recall  and  the  wishes  he  has  cherished.  Before 
entering  a  town  he  usually  describes  it  as  it  is  painted 


BOmon&o  in  his  fancy;  then  he  will  give  us  first  impressions, 
*  and  lastly  a  minute  account  of  everything.  As  a 
fair  specimen  of  this  manner,  let  us  open  the  volume 
'Holland'  and  read  his  description  of  Broek.  Ever 
since  his  arrival  in  Holland  he  had  been,  in  fancy, 
planning  and  building  this  curious  village.  He 
had  been  inquiring  everywhere  about  it,  noting  not 
only  the  answers  he  got,  but  also  the  looks,  smiles  or 
shrugs  that  accompanied  them;  and  when  at  last  he 
is  come  to  the  much-talked-of  locality  he  peers 
through  the  screen  of  forest  with  eager,  playful 
impatience,  and  this  is  what  he  sees : 

'After  half  an  hour's  walk,  although  no  sign  of 
Broek  appeared  beyond  the  top  of  a  tall  steeple, 
I  began  to  see  here  and  there  signs  which  an- 
nounced the  neighborhood  of  a  village.  As  I 
went  on  I  saw  rustic  houses  with  their  windows 
ornamented  with  net  curtains  and  ribbons,  with 
little  movable  mirrors,  and  toys  hung  up ;  their  doors 
and  window-frames  painted  in  bright  colors,  and 
finally,  strangest  of  all,  trees  with  their  trunks  colored 
bright  blue  from  the  root  to  the  first  branches. 

'Laughing  to  myself  at  this  last  oddity,  I  looked 
about  and  discovered  a  boy  lying  on  the  grass. 
' Broek?'  inquired  I.  'Broek,'  he  responded,  laugh- 
ing. 

'Imagine  a  city  made  for  the  show-window  of  a 
Nuremburg  toy-shop,  a  village  constructed  by  a 


ballet-master  after  the  drawing  on  a  Chinese  fan,  a  *<^  Description 
group  of  houses  made  for  the  scenes  of  a  puppet- 
theatre,  the  fancy  of  an  Oriental  drunk  with  opium, 
something  which  makes  you  think  of  Japan,  India, 
Tartary,  and  Switzerland  all  at  once,  with  a  touch 
of  Pompadour  rococo,  and  something  of  the  con- 
structions in  sugar  that  one  sees  in  a  confectioner's 
window ;  a  mixture  of  the  barbaric,  the  pretty,  the 
presumptuous,  the  ingenious,  and  the  silly,  which, 
[while  it  offends  good  taste,  provokes  at  the  same  time 
a  good-natured  laugh;  imagine,  in  short,  the  most 
childish  extravagance  to  which  the  name  of  village 
can  be  given,  and  you  will  have  a  faint  idea  of  Brock. 

'All  the  houses  are  surrounded  by  small  gardens, 
separated  from  the  streets  by  sky-blue  pailing,  each 
in  the  form  of  a  balustrade,  with  wooden  apples  and 
oranges  on  the  top  of  the  pales.  The  houses,  for 
most  part  built  of  wood,  and  all  of  one  story  only, 
and  very  small,  are  rose-colored,  black,  gray,  purple, 
blue  and  grass-green;  every  door  painted  and  gilded, 
and  surmounted  with  all  sorts  of  bas-reliefs  represent- 
ing flowers  and  figures,  in  the  midst  of  which  can 
be  read  the  name  and  profession  of  the  proprietor. 

*The  gardens  are  not  less  odd  than  the  houses. 
They  seem  made  for  dwarfs.  The  paths  are  scarcely 
wide  enough  for  the  feet,  the  arbors  can  contain  two 
very  small  persons  standing  close  together,  the  box- 
wood borders  would  not  reach  the  knee  of  a  child  of 

\65 


B&mon&o  four  years.  Around  houses  and  gardens  stand  trees 
'  cut  in  shape  of  fans,  plumes,  discs,  etc.,  with  their 
trunks  painted  white  and  blue,  and  here  and  there 
appears  a  little  wooden  house  for  a  domestic  animal, 
painted,  gilded,  and  carved  like  a  house  in  a  puppet- 
show. 

*One  expects  every  moment  to  see  the  doors  fly 
open  and  a  population  of  automatons  come  forth 
with  cymbals  and  tambourines  in  their  hands,  like 
the  figures  on  hand-organs.  Fifty  paces  carry  you 
around  a  house,  over  a  bridge,  through  a  garden, 
and  back  to  your  starting  point. 

'After  having  walked  about  for  a  while  without 
meeting  any  one,  I  began  to  wish  for  a  view  of  the 
inside  of  one  of  these  houses.  Whilst  I  looked  about 
in  search  of  some  hospitable  soul,  I  heard  some  one 
call  *  Monsieur  I  Would  you  wish  to  see  a  private 
house?'  She  was  a  poor  widow,  she  told  me,  and 
had  only  one  room ;  but  what  a  room  1  The  floor 
was  covered  with  clean  matting ;  the  furniture  shone 
like  ebony,  all  the  little  points  of  metal  here  and 
there  looked  like  silver.  The  fire-place  was  a  real 
temple,  lined  with  colored  tiles,  and  as  clean  and 
polished  as  if  it  had  never  seen  a  fire.  She  showed 
me  the  utensils  for  cleaning  the  room — enough  to 
set  up  a  shop;  brooms,  brushes,  cloths,  scrapers, 
dust-pans,  pokers,  shovels,  feather  brushes,  aqua- 
fortis, Spanish  white  for  window-panes,  Venetian 

^66 


red  for  the  knives,  coal-dust  for  the  copper  vessels,  ^^  Hmtcis  Be- 

f        ft.      ^t    .       ^t  .        1-  .  f  r        ti-.      0cnption  ot  astocft. 
'emery  for  polishing  the  iron  things,  brick  tor  rubbing 

the  pavements,  and  sticks  for  poking  out  micro- 
scopic straws  that  get  in  the  cracks  of  the  floors. 

*In  former  times,'  she  said,  *the  mania  for 
cleanliness  arrived  at  such  a  pass  that  the  women 
of  Broek  neglected  their  religious  duties  for  it.  The 
pastor  of  the  village,  after  having  tried  all  means  of 
persuasion  to  end  the  scandal,  took  another  way. 
,He  preached  a  sermon  in  which  he  said  that  every 
I  woman  who  faithfully  fulfilled  her  duties  toward 
God  in  this  earthly  life, would  find  in  the  other  world 
a  house  full  of  furniture,  utensils,  and  trifles  various 
and  precious,  in  which  undisturbed  by  other  occupa- 
tion, she  could  sweep,  wash,  and  polish  for  all 
eternity,  without  ever  coming  to  an  end.  The 
image  of  this  sublime  recompense,  the  thought  of 
this  immense  felicity,  infused  such  ardor  and  piety 
into  the  women  of  Broek,  that  from  that  moment 
they  were  assiduous  at  religious  exercises,  and  never 
had  need  of  further  admonition.' 

De  Amicis  tells  us  that  further  along  in  this 
village  is  preserved  a  miniature  representative  of  one 
of  the  houses  and  gardens  as  they  appeared  in 
ancient  Broek,  *  preserved  by  the  proprietor  as  an 
historical  monument  of  past  folly.  Here  are  bridges 
a  palm  long,  grottos  and  cascades  of  miniature  pro- 
portions, small  rustic  chapels,  Greek  temples,  Giinese 

J67 


365mon5o  kiosks,  Indian  pagodas,  painted  statues ;  tiny  fig- 
'  ures  with  gilded  feet  and  hands,  which  bounce  out 
of  flower-baskets ;  automata  of  life  size  that  smoke 
and  spin ;  doors  which  open  with  a  spring  and  dis- 
play a  company  of  puppets  seated  at  a  table ;  little 
basins  with  swans  and  geese  in  zinc ;  paths  paved 
with  a  mosaic  of  shells,  and  with  a  fine  porcelain 
vase  in  the  middle;  trees  cut  into  a  representation  of 
the  human  figure;  bushes  of  box  carved  into  the 
shapes  of  bell  towers,  chapels,  ships,  chimeras ;  pea- 
cocks with  spread  tails,  and  children  with  arms 
stretched  out ;  paths,  arbors,  hedges,  flowers,  plants, 
all  contorted,  tormented,  twisted,  and  bastardized. 
And  such  in  former  times  were  all  the  houses  and 
gardens  of  Broek/ 

Thus  does  De  Amicis  in  his  travels  muse,  talk- 
ing to  himself,  laughing  aloud,  very  much  like  an 
overgrown  schoolboy,  which,  after  all,  he  is;  and 
somehow  this  familiar  prattle  is  right^elcome ;  we 
take  a  strong  liking  to  this  ingenuous  traveller  and 
we  willingly  follow  whither  he  leads. 

As  we  wander  with  him  in  Spain,  assisting  at 
a  bull-fight,  correada  de  tows;  seeing  through  his 
eyes  we  miss  no  episode  of  the  gala  spectacle.  When 
we  follow  him  to  Morocco,  so  life-like  is  his  picture 
of  the  brilliant  and  gorgeous  fantasies  of  the  Moor- 
ish capital  that  one  is  inclined  to  regard  De  Amicis 
as  at  his  best  when  painting  gay  pageants  and 

168 


festivals ;  but  when  we  turn  to  the  homely,  sober  2>c  Hmicis' 

descriptions  of  neat,  toy-like  Dutch  houses,  and  the  *  <^^»«t«»«"0Pt^^ 

impressive  picture  of  a  dark  gray  sky  lowering  on 

the  dull,  sombre  waves  of  a  bleak  northern  coast, 

we  pause  and  ask  which  we  like  best,  and  are  ready 

to  acknowledge  that  no  other  books  of  travel  afford 

so  much  delight  as  these. 

The  reader  of  the  volume  *  Constantinople  *  will 
not  easily  forget  the  clever  little  sketch  of  those  dogs 
that  *  will  hardly  stir  even  if  they  see  a  four-in-hand 
coming  down  upon  them  at  full  speed,'  and  which 
will  make  a  move  only  at  the  very  last  moment, 
when  the  horses*  hoofs  are  ready  to  come  down 
upon  their  heads;  even  then  only  dragging  their 
laziness  a  few  inches  farther,  just  the  necessary  dis- 
tance to  get  out  of  danger. 

'They  will  crouch  in  the  middle  of  a  street,  in 
a  circle  or  in  a  row  of  six,  ten,  or  twenty,  of  them, 
so  doubled  up  that  they  look  much  more  like  a  heap 
of  filth  than  living  animals;  and  there  they  will 
sleep  the  whole  day,  amidst  people  going  to  and  fro 
in  a  deafening  turmoil.  .  .  .  Neither  rain  nor  snow 
nor  scorching  sun,  nor  chilling  cold  can  move  them* 
When  snow  falls,  it  falls  on  them ;  when  it  rains, 
they  lie  there  sunk  in  mud  up  to  their  muzzles;  and 
when  at  last  they  rise,  they  look  like  dogs  moulded 
in  clay,  but  with  eyes,  ears  and  faces  hardly  dis- 
tinguishable.' 

169 


BJ)mon&o  That  is  a  picture  from  the  life,  and  a  like  accu- 

*  racy  of  description  is  seen  in  all  of  our  author's  books 
of  travel.  Notable,  too,  is  his  avoidance  of  monotony 
in  his  descriptions  of  many  similar  landscapes  or 
scenes;  whether  he  describes  winter  scenery,  or 
Dutch  cottages,  or  rows  of  ships  at  anchor  in  Flem- 
ish harbors,  there  is  never  repetition. 

It  would  be  ungracious  to  remark  upon  what 
De  Amicis  might  have  told  us,  but  has  not  told ; 
how  he  has  overlooked  weightier  matters  in  thus 
giving  attention  to  homely  things,  or  to  what  is 
simply  picturesque  or  curious. 

De  Amicis,  as  appears  from  his  books,  is  just 
the  sort  of  man  one  would  like  to  have  for  a  fellow 
voyagen  He  has  that  fund  of  good  humor  and 
that  faculty  of  being  happy  and  at  home  everywhere, 
without  which  traveling,  though  with  portmonnaie 
packed  with  bills  of  exchange,  is  a  dreary  experience. 
His  radiant  cordiality  seems  to  have  on  occasion 
melted  the  icy  barrier  of  reserve  with  which  the 
untraveled  Englishman  fences  himself  round.  "While 
De  Amicis  was  riding  on  top  of  an  omnibus  in  Lon- 
don, a  young  man  sitting  beside  him  addressed  a 
remark  to  him  in  English,  which  to  our  author  was 
an  unknown  tongue.  The  story  must  be  given  in 
the  author's  own  words,  or  rather  in  an  English 
version  of  them:  'My  only  reply  was  a  nod  and  a 
smile;  and  thus  encouraged  he  went  on.    Seeing 

J70 


that  he  was  pleased  to  find  me  in  agreement  with  Sf^^jV^^' 
him,  I  made  a  show  of  understanding  it  all,  and 
treated  him  to  a  series  of  nods,  smiles  and  indiffer- 
entiated  gestures  that  might  answer  to  anything. 
When  I  grew  tired  of  my  part,  I  thought  that,  since 
I  had  been  conversing  in  an  idiom  I  could  not  under- 
stand,! had  some  right  to  address  him  in  a  language 
of  which  he  was  ignorant,  so  I  began  to  talk 
in  Italian* 

*It  was  like  groping  in  the  dark,  yet  he  laughed, 
clapped  his  hand  on  my  knee,  and  sat  listening  as 
though  I  were  singing  an  arietta;  then  he  fell  to 
talking  English  again ;  and  so  we  went  on  till  the 
omnibus  stopped/ 

Happy  the  traveler  who  meets  with  such  adven- 
tures, or  rather  who  can  carry  himself  through  such 
adventures  so  prettily  by  sheer  force  of  his  good 
humor. 

The  most  popular  of  all  of  De  Amicis'  writings 
is  'Cuore*;  indeed  it  may  be  said  to  be  at  this 
moment  the  most  popular  prose  work  of  Italy.  With 
a  view  to  excite  and  stimulate  a  feeling  of  comrade- 
ship and  fellowship  among  young  Italians,  it  calls 
into  being  a  whole  world  of  schoolboys,  in  which  the 
true,  natural  and  moral  relation  of  individual  to  ' 
individual,  and  of  individual  to  society,  are  illus- 
trated. This  world  of  boys  bears  a  strong  impress 
of  truth  and  realism  in  the  pages  of  *Cuore';  wc 


B&mon&o  feel  as  though  we  were  really  living  with  them,  join- 
*  ing  in  their  sports,  sharing  their  amusements,  striv- 
ing with  them  to  form  ourselves  to  a  manly  character* 
We  know  them  all  by  name,  and,  as  it  were,  per- 
sonally; Garrione,  the  sturdy  protector  of  the  little 
ones;  De  Rossi,  the  boy  of  gentle  birth,  whose 
superior  breeding  is  recognized,  not  envied  by  his 
comrades;  the  funny  Garoffi,  a  bom  shopkeeper, 
keen  for  profitable  trade.  We  pity  the  crippled  boy, 
son  of  a  convict.  We  share  their  troubles  and  their 
simple  joys. 

.Though  fiery  patriotism  may  ofttimes  be  lack- 
ing in  world- worn  men,  and  the  world-wise  sceptic 
may  smile  at  their  heroic  feats,  we  are  sure  that 
'  many  a  gallant  hero  of  eleven  has  glowed  with 
admiration  for  the  brave  little  drummer  or  the  daring 
Lombard  boy  whose  stories  are  told  with  a  simplicity 
more  impressive  than  De  Amicis'  usual  florid  style. 

Yet  when  we  consider  how  difficult  it  is  for 
grown  people  to  understand  children's  minds,  and 
how  general  the  failure  to  produce  in  English,  books 
designed  to  promote  the  healthy,  moral,  social  and 
mental  development  of  boys;  we  naturally  hesitate 
to  admit  all  the  claims  made  on  behalf  of  *Cuore'. 

In  Italy  *Cuore'  certainly  enjoys  unparalleled 
success,  and  the  book  or  its  'system'  is  believed  to  be 
a  step  toward  the  solution  of  one  of  the  problems  of 
true  education — education  for  moral  and  social  ends. 

J72 


A  man  of  De  Amicis*  magnetism  and  geniality  2>e  amfcte 
IS  sure  to  have  many  mends,  even  chance  acquamt- 
ances  are  apt  to  be  demonstrative.  Though  ephem- 
reralt  the  attachments  are  pleasant  to  remember. 
When  time  has  snapped  the  slender  tie,  there  still 
remains  the  fragrant  perfume  of  memory,  mellowed 
by  easy  oblivion  of  any  former  bitterness.  In  swarms 
these  phantoms  of  old  friendships  haunt  the  mind  of 
De  Amicis;  day  by  day  as  they  pass  he  fixes  the 
pleasant  vision  and  notes  down  his  emotions  until 
he  has  accumulated  material  for  those  two  bulky 
volumes  *Gli  Amici'. 

Naturally  we  do  not  find  that  analysis  of  friend- 
ship which  Montaigne  has  given  us  in  a  few  preg- 
nant sentences.  The  faculty  of  exploring  the  human 
soul  is  denied  to  De  Amicis;  whenever  he  has 
undertaken  to  write  a  pathetic  tale  it  has  been  a  fail- 
ure. Heroes  like  Albert  and  heroines  like  Camilla — 
in  the  volume  'Novelle  *  are  second-rate  mouthpieces 
of  persecuted  innocence  and  bombastic  sentimen- 
tality. 

Under  the  influence  of  Zola — ^he  has  in  *Un 
Dramma  Nella  Scuola  * — tried  his  hand  at  a  realistic 
rendering  of  passionate  grief  in  a  girlish  heart. 
Anyone  must  remember  the  masterful  pages  in 
which  Zola  shows  how  a  sensitive  and  refined  little 
girl  breaks  her  heart  and  dies  of  grief  for  her  mother's 
fciult.    The  same  subject  tempted  De  Amicis,  and  he 

173 


fi&mon&o  tells  us  how  a  schoolgirl  is  tortured  by  her  mother's 
*  shameful  life  and  how  after  having  been  rudely  told 
how  matters  stand  she  becomes  ill  and  dies.  Whilst 
Zola  in  a  few  masterful  strokes  sheds  such  vivid 
light  on  little  Pauline's  feelings  that  we  learn  to 
understand  her  slightest  word,  nay,  her  every  look — 
as  when  she  recoils  under  the  doctor's  physical 
examination;  we  utterly  fail  to  penetrate  into  the 
heart  of  De  Amicis'  heroine.  The  whole  manage- 
ment of  the  plot  is  clumsy;  a  crowd  of  useless 
characters  encumber  the  scene,  adding  nothing  to 
the  realization  of  the  psychic  moment,  diverting  our 
attention  from  the  principal  figure  which  grows 
hazy  and  loses  all  individuality. 

The  ideas  crossing  that  dying  girl's  mind  are 
enumerated  at  length  by  the  author,  and  we  are  not 
called  to  behold  the  soul-struggle  which  alone  must 
be  interesting  in  its  cruel  effects.  We  read  a  tale,  we 
neither  see  nor  feel  a  human  heart. 

The  success  of  his  *  Travels '  indicated  to  De 
Amicis  wherein  lies  his  power,  and  he  wisely  aban- 
doned the  field  of  sentimental  fiction  and  confined 
himself  to  that  branch  of  literary  art  in  which  he  is 
unrivaled — description  of  social  types  and  exposition 
of  actual  social  conditions, 

*Sull'  Oceano'  is  the  best  example  of  this  tal- 
ent. Confident  in  his  own  original  power  as 
observer  and  artist,  and  encouraged  by  the  unvarying 

J74 


success  of  all  his  books  of  travel,  he  boldly  dis-  ®J  »!"^*^*  , 
penses  with  the  historical  allusions  and  the  lumber 
of  geographical  description,  with  which  those  earlier 
writings  were  filled,  and  in  this  volume  is  simply  a 
painter  of  every  changing  scene.  The  book  is  not 
unlike  an  album  of  photographs  of  classes  and 
groups  of  passengers — tourists,  merchants,  emi- 
grants— taken  on  shipboard  in  a  voyage  to  America. 
The  first-class  passengers  are  described  with  fine 
satirical  humor ;  the  miserable  emigrants  with  sym- 
pathy deepening  into  compassion,  and  at  times 
rising  into  indignation  over  the  miseries  which  com- 
pel them  to  quit  their  native  land,  and  to  seek  new 
homes  over  sea.  Passages  of  broad  humor  are 
happily  intermingled  with  deeply  affecting  scenes; 
and  such  is  the  author's  lightness  of  touch  and  his 
exquisite  sensibility  that  we  are  never  shocked  by 
any  jarring  note. 

On  this  voyage  his  eyes  were  opened  to  new 
problems  of  society.  Henceforth  these  problems 
are  chiefly  to  engage  his  attention,  and  he  will 
devote  all  his  energies  to  social  reform,  and  will 
labor  to  bring  about  the  social  revolution. 

The  two  volumes  which  succeeded  ^SuU' 
Oceano%  vi^:  *Fra  Scuola  e  Casa*  and  *II  Ro- 
manzo  d*  un  Maestro '  are  a  study  of  the  social 
and  economic  conditions  of  schoolmasters  and  school- 
mistresses in  Italy. 

175 


BOmonOo  Jn  these  works  De  Amicis  does  not  presume  to 

*  investigate  the  historic  causes  of  the  present  condi- 
tions ;  he  simply  shows  what  they  are,  without  offer- 
ing any  project  of  redress,  enough  for  him  that  he 
paints  the  situation  faithfully,  so  as  to  call  public 
attention  to  evils  that  cry  out  loudly  for  a  remedy. 

The  plot  of  the  *II  Romanzo  d*  un  Maestro  *  is 
loosely  developed;  it  is  little  more  than  a  slender 
thread  connecting  together  a  number  of  scenes  in 
school  life.  The  perusal  of  this  book  has  a  sadden- 
ing effect;  even  the  buoyant  spirits  of  De  Amicis 
sink  as  he  contemplates  the  hard  and  cheerless  lot 
of  Italian  teachers.  A  man  rising  from  such  a 
study  must  become  a  pessimist  and  abandon  hope 
and  effort,  or  he  must  become  an  earnest  advocate  of 
reform. 

And  it  is  in  Socialism  that  De  Amicis  puts  his 
trust  for  the  cure  of  this  and  all  other  ills  of  society. 
He  has  accepted  the  doctrine  of  the  socialists,  it  is 
true ;  but  he  is  of  too  mild  and  gentle  a  nature  to 
harbor  feelings  of  rancor  against  the  oppressor  while 
he  broods  over  the  wrongs  of  the  oppressed.  In  his 
youth  he  was  the  enthusiast  of  patriotism;  he  is 
now  an  ardent  socialist ;  whether  as  patriot  or  as 
socialist,  he  acts  from  passionate  feeling,  sym- 
pathy, rather  than  from  calm  reason.  He  is  a 
socialist  for  the  same  reason  that  he  was  a  nation- 
alist and  a  patriot;  because  to-day  socialism  is  in 

176 


the  moral  atmosphere  about  him,  as  patriotism  was  ®^®g^^!^..  . 
then ;  and  in  the  political  life  of  Italy  no  party  inter- 
ests, save  those  of  socialism,  can  have  any  strong 
attraction  for  a  man  of  the  moral  constitution  of  Dc 
Amicis. 

In  these  latter  days  his  voice  is  often  raised  and 

his  pen  is  ever  busy  in  appeals  to  the  working 

classes  to  unite  against  what  he  terms  *  the  common 

enemy* — Capitalism;   but  De  Amicis  is  not,  will 

not,  cannot  be  a  leader;  like  Doctor  Faustus, 

he  has  seen  the  good  and  the  evil  of  the 

world  of  man  and  of  the   spiritual 

world;   like  Faust,  he   dreams 

a  beauteous  dream  of  peace 

and  righteousness. 


J  77 


3SriCCOLA  PISANO,  THE  FATHER  OF 
MODERN  ITALIAN  SCULPTURE 


.-s?    i¥^    i;^-^. 


**«-i«i4< 


lumsnecf 
that  per; 
in  h€W? 
Ir 

a  b '  ^ 


tht 


IS  HARLY  at  ifw  f«ifn 

|ACUi|3<<Ur«  WAS  fX\   ikCfdiM 

(koKdcniPi;    in  tbt  «ftxth 
It  favi  MOM  faint 

lin  the  bms-relieli  of  cerlajfi 

ittJt»<3ft^t<9|!Gl%^;   St 

Ived  kk 
Bf»3r5  IS  ofnoiJ<E,ni  Uq*'  ^    ^^^^ 

ht  \  and  so  remained  for  six  centuries^    In 

all  artistk  expertness  was  lost  \  a!l  skill 

*  carving  marble  was  forgottou 

omo  <£  Pisa  is  seen,  affixed  to  a  ^tn&, 

caeallilft  the  '  Descent  from  the  Groi»  ^ ; 

k  ol    Benedetto  Anteiani    and  waa 

tn  tlM  years  U78  and  U98 ;  It  Is  tiu 

've  iwiieci  of  the  rtawaliialiif  df 

lit*    foi  most  strfldfif  ftaiuet  is 

its  fifwcs,  which  suggest  tbc  rude 


IS  EARLY  as  the  reign 
of  Constantine,  Roman 
I  sculpture  was  in  hopeless 
decadence;  in  the  sixth 
I  century  it  gave  some  faint 
signs  of  lingering  vitality 
in  the  bas-reliefs  of  certain 
Christian  sarcophagi;  it 
then  became  involved  in 
the  '  universal  and  unil- 
lumined  night  *,  and  so  remained  for  six  centuries.  In 
that  period  all  artistic  expertness  was  lost ;  all  skill 
in  hewing  and  carving  marble  was  forgotten. 

In  the  Duomo  of  Pisa  is  seen,  affixed  to  a  wall, 
a  bas-relief  representing  the  *  Descent  from  the  Cross' ; 
it  is  the  work  of  Benedetto  Antelani  and  was 
executed  between  the  years  U78  and  U98 ;  it  is  the 
earliest  evidence  we  possess  of  the  reawakening  of 
this  long-dormant  art«  Its  most  striking  feature  is 
the  ugliness  of  its  figures,  which  suggest  the  rude 


\Zl 


■Riccola  plgano.  wooden  dramatis  personae  of  a  puppet  show  rather 
than  the  venerated  forms  of  the  saintly  men  and 
women,  the  angels  and  the  Saviour,  which  constitute 
the  group.  Nevertheless,  we  view  with  more  toler- 
ance this  crude  composition  when  we  reflect  that  the 
figures  in  Antelani's  'Descent  from  the  Cross'  do 
not  by  any  means  bear  the  palm  of  ugliness  among 
the  productions  of  Italian  sculpture  in  his  time. 

And  indeed  Antelani's  bas-rehef,  though  crude 
in  conception  and  rough  in  execution,  is  a  distinct 
advance  beyond  all  similar  works  of  earlier  dates ; 
for  in  those  earlier  works  the  figures  are  not  only 
false  in  delineation — in  fact,  more  like  monsters  than 
normal  human  creatures — ^but  also  they  are  invari- 
ably carved  in  rows,  all  in  one  attitude,  as  though 
cast  in  one  mould;  there  is  no  individuality,  no 
character,  no  action,  no  movement,  any  more  than  in  a 
row  of  hairdresser's  blocks.  Therefore,  in  spite  of  all 
his  shortcomings,  it  is  greatly  to  Antelani's  credit 
that  at  least  he  could  so  far  disregard  conventions 
as  to  attempt  the  representation  of  a  dramatic 
scene. 

But  though  in  Antelani's  work  indications  of 
progress  are  not  wanting,  it  is  all  too  evident  that 
the  art  of  carving  marble  with  a  chisel  was  still  in 
a  very  primitive  state.  On  the  other  hand,  in  strik- 
ing contrast  with  sculpture  in  marble,  the  art  of 
moulding  and  casting  in  bronze,  in  which  the  later 

\Z2 


Byzantines  attained  a  high  degree  of  perfection, was,  ^^^<^J^  Pfsano, 

\        1  ..  r   T<  .  .  i.       darvinfl  in  flBarble 

under  the   tuition   of  Byzantine   masters,  making  ^  x^jgt  Brt. 

rapid  progress  at  this  time  in  Italy.'     But  though 

the  Byzantines  could  teach  the  Italians  to  cast  bronze 

and  to  carve  ivory,  they  could  not  instruct  them  in 

'  the  art  of  carving  marble  with  hammer  and  chisel, 

for  that  was  an  art  unknown  in  Constantinople, 

Hence,  the  early  Italian  sculptors,  those  worthy 
of  the  name,  had  no  aid  either  from  teachers  or  from 
tradition,  in  the  art  of  representing  the  human  form 
in  marble ;  they  had  to  work  out  their  own  ideals,  to 
discover  the  principles  of  art  expression  for  them- 
selves, and  to  formulate  its  precepts.  At  first  they 
[chose  to  hide  their  deficiencies  by  attempting  only 
what  was  easy,  as  the  carving  of  roses  and  foliage 
I  on  the  cornices  or  framework  with  which  they  sur- 
rounded their  crude  essays  in  bas-relief ;  occasionally 
they  blended  decoration  in  mosaic  with  this  carved 
ornamentation. 

Such  was  the  condition  of  sculpture  in  Italy  at 
the  advent  of  Niccola  Pisano  and  the  renaissance  of 

I.  Of  this  noble  workmanship  there  remain  three  celebrated  examples.  I.  The 
bronze  door  of  San  Zeno  in  Verona,  the  most  ancient  portion  of  which  dates  back  to  the 
eleventh  century.  2.  The  rear  door  of  the  Duomo  of  Piza,  called  Porta  di  San  Raniere, 
which  is  ascribed  to  Bonanno !  its  probable  date,  1 1 80.  There  is  eood  reason  to  believe 
this  Bonanno  to  be  the  same  architect  who,  assisted  by  Guglielmo  d'  mnspruck,  had  already 
begun  the  erection  of  the  celebrated  Campanile.  When  three  tiers  of  columns  had  been 
erected,  the  building,  because  of  the  uneven  settling  of  the  foundations,  was  seen  to  lean  to 
one  side ;  and  this  inclination  the  architects  who  undertook  the  completion  of  the  tower 
deemed  it  advisable  to  continue  for  the  u^er  five  tiers.  3.  The  bronze  gates  of  the 
Duomo  of  Troja,  wrought  by  Oderisino  of  Bsnevento.  In  beauty  of  design  and  excellence 
of  workmanship,  this  door  excels  that  of  Pisa  as  Pisa's  door  surpasses  that  of  Verona. 
The  superior  skill  shown  by  Oderisino  is  a  proof  of  the  powerful  influence  exerted  in  Southern 
Italy  by  the  Constantinopolitan  Greeks,  an  influence  which  was  not  only  far  stronger  there 
than  in  Northern  Italy,  but  also  lasted  a  century  longer. 


J83 


HiccoU  plsano.  the  art  which  was,  rather  more  than  two  hundred 
years  later,  to  recall  the  glories  of  the  ancient  Grecian 
schools. 

Of  the  life  and  studies  of  Pisano  there  is  no 
authentic  record;  his  birth  is  referred  to  the  year 
1206,  and  he  died  in  (278 ;  his  birthplace  is  in  doubt, 
the  quasi-sumame,  adopted  by  himself,  Pisanus  (of 
Pisa)  indicating  the  scene  of  his  artistic  labors  rather 
than  his  native  place.  It  is  doubtful  if  he  had  any 
master ;  but  the  influence  of  the  remains  of  ancient 
Roman  sculpture  is  evident  in  all  his  works,  even  the 
earliest. 

It  would  be  foreign  to  our  subject  to  dwell  at 
length  upon  the  work  of  Niccola  as  an  architect,  that 
is  worthy  of  a  separate  study.  The  Castel  Capuano 
and  the  Castel  delP  Uovo  at  Naples ;  the  Basilica  of 
St.  Anthony  at  Padua ;  the  Church  of  the  Santa 
Trinita  at  Florence,  and  the  Church  of  San  Dom- 
enico  at  Arezzo  have  been  attributed  to  him.  The 
alto-rilievo  of  the  'Deposition  from  the  Cross',  still  to 
be  seen  in  the  lunette  of  one  of  the  side  doors  of  the 
Duomo  of  San  Martino  at  Lucca,  and  the  statuettes 
on  the  outside  of  the  Misericordia  Vecchia  at  Florence, 
are  also  reputed  to  be  his  work;  but  it  is  not  certain 
that  he  executed  them,  nor  is  their  precise  date 
known. 

It  is  in  the  Battisterio  of  Pisa,  a  beautiful  Romanic 
temple,  that  we  find  the  first  intimations  of  Pisano's 

184 


genius  as  a  sculptor*     The  Battisterio  was  com-  "W^ccola  pfsano's 

menced  in  n52   by  the  architect  Diotisalvi.    On 

entering  this  exquisitely  beautiful  building,  the  object 

which  first  commands   attention  is   the   gorgeous 

baptismal  font  in  the  middle ;  but  another  work  of 

art,  and  one  far  more  worthy  of  study,  though  too 

often  it  is  left  unnoticed,  because  of  the  imposing 

grandeur  of  the  font,  is  the  pulpit  erected  by  Niccola 

Pisano. 

Throughout  Italy,  and  especially  in  Tuscany, 
are  seen  many  carved  pulpits  of  marble  of  date 
anterior  to  Pisano's  pulpit  at  Pisa ;  but  these  are  all 
built  after  one  conventional  model  without  a  touch 
of  original  genius ;  they  are  invariably  rectangular 
in  form,  at  the  back  built  into  the  wall  of  the  church, 
and  in  front  supported  by  brackets  or  by  columns. 

Nicola  showed  the  originality  and  the  bold- 
ness of  his  genius  as  an  architect,  for  here  was  a 
problem  for  the  architect  rather  than  for  the 
sculptor,  by  erecting  an  hexagonal  pulpit,  entirely 
isolated,  and  supported  wholly  by  nine  columns,  six 
at  the  angles,  two  at  the  back,  supporting  the  stairs, 
and  one  in  the  middle*  Of  the  columns,  two  rest 
upon  the  backs  of  lions  and  one  on  the  back  of  a 
lioness,  giving  suck  to  her  cubs*  At  the  feet  of  the 
lions  crouch  smaller  animals,  seeking  protection*  To 
develop  the  symbolism  of  these  figures  and  group- 
ings would  involve  a  closer  and  larger  study  of  this 

J85 


Wccoia  pisano*  work  of  Pisano^s  than  can  be  given  to  it  in  the 
present  essay.' 

The  central  column  is  set  upon  a  group  of  men 
and  animals.  The  six  incorrect  Corinthian  capitals, 
which  crown  the  columns  of  the  six  angles,  support 
rounded  arches,  each  of  which  is  divided,  after  the 
ogival  style,  into  three  smaller,  rounded  arches. 
From  the  corner  capitals,  between  the  arches,  rise 
pillars  faced  with  caryatid-like  statues,  which  serve 
as  supports  to  the  cornice.  The  triangular  spaces 
between  these  caryatid  pillars  and  the  arches  arc 
adorned  with  bas-reliefs  of  the  evangelists  and  of 
doctors  of  the  church.  Above  the  cornice  rises  the 
parapet  of  the  pulpit,  at  each  angle  of  which  arc 
three  columns.  At  one  of  the  six  spaces  between 
these  triple  columns  is  the  stair ;  the  faces  or  com- 
partments of  the  parapet  in  the  other  five  spaces  are 
beautifully  carved  in  bas-relief.  In  the  angle  called 
coma  evangelii,  or  the  gospel  comer,  the  columns  are 
cut  somewhat  shorter  than  in  the  other  angles  of  the 
parapet,  and  support  an  eagle  which  holds  in  its 
talons  a  rabbit,  and  on  its  outspread  wings  sustains 
a  reading-desk  or  lectern. 

Not  all  of  the  architectural  ideas  realized  by 
Pisano  in  this  work  are  original  with  him ;  he  may 

I.  The  lion  is  the  accepted  symbol  of  sacerdotal  wisdom  and  watchfulness !  he  always 
in  traditional  story  accompanies  the  wise  Solomon.  Christ,  of  whom  the  Jewish  King  was 
a  type  or  figure,  is  represented  as  attended  by  twelve  lions — the  twelve  apostles.  In  'the 
Apocalypse  of  St.  John  the  Divine,  Christ  is  called  the  Lion  of  the  tribe  of  Judah. — Kreuser, 
VoLI.,p.  189. 


mccou  pu«»o^  ^ff,^  qI  Pisano's  than  can  be  given  to  it  in  the 
|v«icnt  essay.' 

The  central  column  is  set  upon  a  group  of  men 
and  animals.  The  six  incorrect  Corinthian  capitals, 
which  crown  the  columns  of  the  six  angles,  support 
rounded  arches,  each  of  which  ii  iMded,  after  the 
ogival  style*  into  three  smaller,  foimded  arches. 
From  the  comer  capitals,  between  ibc  arches,  rise 
pillars  faced  with  caryatid-like  st^iKMM^  which  serve 
as  supports  to  the  cornice.  The  Irtunfubr  spaces 
between  these  caryatid  pillars  and  the  Jirches  are 
adorned  with  bas-reliefs  of  the  evanffdMi  and  of 
doctors  of  the  church.  Above  the  cornice  rises  the 
parapet  of  the  pulpit^  at  each  angle  of  which  are 
three  columns.  At  one  of  the  six  spaces  between 
these  triple  {h|ltr^s8i^nJial4^ir ;  the  faces  or  com- 
partments of ,  the  parapet  m  the  other  five  spaces  arc 
beautifully  carved  m  bas-reliei.     in 


beautifully  carv-eoi  m  bas-miel.  In  the  ao^lt  called 
coma  evangeliir  or  the  gospel  comer,  the  columns  are 
cut  somewhat  shorter  tliian  in  the  other  angles  of  the 
parapet,  and  support  an  eagle  which  holds  in  its 
talons  a  rabbit,  and  on  its  outspread  wings  sustains 
a  reading-desk  or  lectern. 

Not  all  of  the  architectural  ideas  realized  by 
Pisano  in  this  work  are  original  with  him  ;  he  may 

I.  The  lion  is  tb*  Acct^tA  crmbol  «l  BMcidotal  wiadonn  and  watchlulncn ;  he  «hr«ya 
in  traditional  atoiy  accompAnica  tha  wiac  Sefonton.  Chrict,  of  w-bom  the  Jcwiah  Kiiuf  wm 
a  type  or  figure,  ia  rcprcacntcii  »a  att«vfad  by  twelve  Uona — the  twelve  apoatlea.  In  the 
Apocalrpee  of  St.  John  the  Divine,  Chriat  U  called  the  Lion  of  the  tribe  of  Judah.— Kr«uj««, 


ApocaiTPa 

yS.\.,  p. 


189. 


not  have  borrowed  them  from  the  remains  of  Greco-  "W^ccola  lM«ano'0 
Roman  art  existing  in  his  country ;  and  we  have  no 
reason  to  suppose  that  he  had  any  knowledge  of 
ancient  art  derived  from  literature;  but  in  the  beau- 
tiful bronze  door  of  the  Duomo  of  Modena  (about 
\\20)f  in  the  church  door  of  San  Zeno  in  Verona 
(about  \  HO)^  and  again  in  the  door  of  the  Duomo 
of  Ferrara,  of  the  same  date,  he  might  have  seen 
columns  resting  on  the  backs  of  lions*  So,  too,  the 
pulpit  of  a  church  at  Barga  (1200),  and  that  of  San 
Bartolomeo  in  Pistoia  (about  1250),  presented  the 
figure  of  an  eagle,  and  had  at  the  angles  pillars  faced 
with  statues* 

But  herein  is  no  disparagement  of  his  originality. 
An  artist  does  not  create  the  elements  of  which  his 
art  consists*  His  genius  is  shown  in  his  mastery  of 
those  elements,  in  the  skill  with  which  he  manipu- 
lates and  orders  them,  in  his  power  to  pronounce  the 
creative  fiat  which  makes  them  things  of  life* 

Pisano  showed  his  independence  of  convention 
and  demonstrated  his  architectural  genius  by  raising 
his  pulpit  above  the  floor  of  the  Battisterio  with  no 
other  support  but  its  own  columns ;  and  by  adapting 
from  the  ogival  style  the  division  of  the  one  rounded 
arch  into  three  smaller  ones ;  thus  is  given  to  this 
work  a  peculiar  and  original  character  which  dis- 
tinguishes it  sharply  from  all  works  of  French  and 
German  architecture* 

J87 


fliccola  pisano.  T^g  ^^{l{  now  give  some  account  of  the  bas-reliefs 

which  decorate  the  five  panels  of  the  parapet ;  and 
first  of  the  *  Nativity**  The  most  notable  figure  in 
this  group  is  that  of  the  Madonna,  who  is  semi- 
recumbent  on  a  couch.  Near  her,  swaddled  and  in 
a  cradle,  is  the  Bambino,  sleeping,  while  beyond  is 
the  Angelic  Host,  a  shepherd  and  his  dog.  Plainly 
the  sculptor  does  not  yet  recognize  the  limitations  of 
his  art,  and  attempts  in  one  composition  to  represent 
two  distinct  moments  of  the  story  of  the  Virgin  and 
her  Son.  Thus,  while  to  the  left  of  the  Madonna 
we  see  the  Babe  sleeping  and  cradled,  on  her  right  is 
the  same  Babe  attended  by  two  women,  one  of  whom 
holds  him  upright  in  a  basin  and  washes  him,  while 
the  other  pours  in  water  from  a  pitcher;  the  figure 
of  the  Babe  is  the  most  exquisite  piece  of  modeling  in 
the  whole  composition;  unfortunately  the  head  of 
this  figure,  as  well  as  the  arm  of  the  woman  holding 
him,  is  lost.  To  the  right  of  this  woman  sits  St. 
Joseph,  an  ill-modeled,  stiff,  uncouth  figure,  with  a 
disproportionately  large  visage.  On  the  left  of  the 
woman  pouring  water  is  seen  a  part  of  the  shepherd's 
flock — sheep  and  goats,  coming  to  the  front  from 
under  the  bed  of  the  Virgin.  The  three  sheep  strike 
the  modern  critic  as  tediously  identical;  the  three 
goats  are  effectually  individualized  in  action  and 
attitude.  Taking  this  bas-relief  as  a  whole,  it  must 
be  said  that  in  diversity  of  form,  feature  and  attitude, 


188 


<«  (nuinian  ol  ^  uhooh ;  b^  sOa^- 

pserious  ltali«ii4Hnftiili^  comfommn  was 
'•mcession  ol  ifiiit»  mm  ^ad  W9$im%  iHiii 

i  sculpture.    In  Pfewur, 

advance  upon  tisli  9(i»v<ir 
^e  force  aiyt  orff  [ii'iatirr  i*  vc<h  «; 
i*:i^. -^  '^d  by  lack  ol  Uxh&^.^e!0  »^t5» 

of  <^  he  still  needs  »ht 

a  cle^sr  .on  c^  the  true  ptvmnsm  ^li  hm  sm 

its  liauMtiii^siiiN 

A  «tf4out  fault  of  thii  wor^  m  lim  ^  «f'^ fKii^'-ri!. 
of  us  msxkms^  with  our  lita^tmm  M||« 
truth  <^  f'i&tory*  and  'local  cc! 
are  never  Jcwtsht  but  alwayvc 

Roman,  ever  s:raS)^D(i^i$Sr^  nl  i!aW^*onRai«  To 
at  Siena,  which  we  shall  c 
ddect,  th'jugh  in  a  less  <k 

T*ke  for  instance,  in  Uu 
figure  of  the  Madonna ;  it  yc 
ception  of  the  Roman  emptt 
tron.    The  female  figure  bci 
pointing  her  out  to  the  a/ 
Roman;  as  is  also  the 
cent  compartment,  cc; 
'Crucifixion*,  the Chri. 


it  far  surpasses  all  previous  works  of  medieval  sculp- ^''^  ''KatipftB'  of 
ture.  Pisano  had,  at  least  in  part,  shaken  himself 
free  from  the  tradition  of  the  schools ;  for  in  the  bas- 
reliefs  of  previous  Italian  artists  the  composition  was 
simply  a  procession  of  figures,  men  and  women,  with 
as  little  difference  of  features,  action  or  expression  as 
in  Egyptian  sculpture.  In  Pisano's  *  Nativity'  there 
is  a  wonderful  advance  upon  this  poverty  of  inven- 
tion, though  the  force  and  originality  of  the  artist's 
ideas  are  disabled  by  lack  of  technical  skill  and  power 
of  expression ;  he  still  needs  also,  as  we  have  seen, 
a  clear  perception  of  the  true  province  of  his  art  and 
its  limitations* 

A  serious  fault  of  this  work,  in  the  estimation 
of  us  moderns,  with  our  studious  regard  for  ^the 
truth  of  history'  and  *  local  color',  is  that  the  figures 
are  never  Jewish,  but  always  distinctly  and  typically 
Roman,  ever  grand  and  dignified,  Pisano's  pulpit 
at  Siena,  which  we  shall  examine  later,  has  the  same 
defect,  though  in  a  less  degree. 

Take  for  instance,  in  the  work  before  us,  the 
figure  of  the  Madonna ;  it  renders  the  familiar  con- 
ception of  the  Roman  empress  or  the  Roman  ma- 
tron. The  female  figure  behind  the  Madonna,  and 
pointing  her  out  to  the  angel,  is  just  as  thoroughly 
Roman;  as  is  also  the  angel  himseE  In  the  adja- 
cent compartment,  containing  the  bas-relief  of  the 
*  Crucifixion',  the  Christ  has  the  thews  of  a  Hercules; 

J89 


flfccola  ^teano.  and  again  the  two  women  who  support  the  swoon- 
ing Virgin  are  truly  Roman  in  feature  and  in  mas- 
siveness.  The  same  Romanesque  stateliness  is  seen 
in  the  bas-relief  representing  the  'Adorazione  dei 
Magi';  indeed  the  Madonna  in  this  compartment  is 
neither  more  nor  less  than  a  copy  of  a  Phaedra 
carved  on  one  of  the  ancient  sarcophagi  in  the 
Campo  Santo  of  Pisa, 

It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  from  whomsoever 
Niccola  learned  the  rudiments  of  his  art,  and  the  use 
of  hammer  and  chisel,  his  real  masters  were  the 
specimens  of  decadent  Roman  sculpture  existent  in 
Pisa  in  his  time,  and  which  are  now  preserved  in 
the  beautiful  Campo  Santo,  the  most  interesting 
museum  of  ancient  art  in  the  world,  and  of  modern 
art  also,  as  far  as  sculpture  is  concerned*  It  was 
from  the  ancient  Roman  school  that  Pisano  derived 
that  stateliness  and  forccfulness  which,  when  thor- 
oughly attempered,  constituted  one  of  the  chief  excel- 
lences of  his  style.  In  the  bas-relief  of  the  pulpit  in 
Pisa,  we  recognize  the  work  of  a  genius ;  but  his 
art  is  still  in  its  infancy,  and  its  technique  is  still  to 
be  developed. 

In  this,  one  of  his  earliest  essays,  Niccola  made 
a  great  advance  beyond  his  predecessors;  but  an 
examination  of  the  pulpit  in  Siena,  executed  by  him 
some  six  or  eight  years  afterward  ( J268),  shows  a  re- 
markable development  alike  in  technical  skill  and  in 

J90 


Th4» piilpit  was  kMtth  Md oma  Waatioi  #«ipic 
fey   rkinid   tn   rrMitrai^nii   w^   1^  «»  *^ 


(bm  4i||lAM>i  fim  0  df  fy^y  iMii  m4MK 

i:4£CturaI  charat:  tai. 

icnced  eye  at  ^ 
later  date  than  me  tu 
I  in  J500  by  the  «ta-?< 
tKr«t  stnturics  later  tha. 
relief*  v    this  addition,  t=  ; 
and  tbi  columns  of  the  bab»»< 
discord  "^'ith  the  main  work. 

B*i*  H  is  with  Niccoia 
deal     Among  its  bas-rclie^ 
*  Nat  In  M  iMtt^t  t<>  «0«B10(5E  **  30^7 

but  iitut:     .dcrcncc  betw^jn^-^^qj  s'ortRst^i  !o 

than  M  S^ena,  but  the  SSmm 

place  of  the  woman  pointt 

tlift  nrnyi,  we  have  here  a  ntxc^ 

nioH^  aged  womaa  wtk 

worn.  ose  hand  she  |p«Mfc..--.r  . 

own  ;  oly  the  prophltiW,  A&m  mvi 

mother   >^  John  the  BopHyt    T^  Mad 

again^  a$  before,  occupies  ifci  fitsMr^.'  pbc^ 

on  a  couch,  is  no  longff  tib«  *r  ^  •  ^    ■-  i 

matron ;  here  she  is  SMtt  kr  ^  >nd 

ness  of  her  young  motbo^  arc  demdf 

m 


Ubc  **  adoration  of  tbe  /»agi" 

of  pi6ano'0  pulptt  at  Pisa 


artistic  sensibility.    This  pulpit  was  built  and  orna-  t>^^no's  pulpit 
mcntcd  by  Pisano  in  collaboration  with  his  son 
Giovanni,  then  eighteen  years  of  age,  and  with 
Arnolfo  di  Cambio. 

Being  octagonal  in  form,  this  Siena  pulpit  dif- 
fers in  architectural  character  from  the  one  in  Pisa. 
An  experienced  eye  at  once  perceives  that  the  stair- 
way is  of  later  date  than  the  rest  of  the  structure.  It 
was  built  in  J  500  by  the  maestro  Riccio,  and  is  thus 
three  centuries  later  than  the  pulpit  proper ;  the  bas- 
reliefs  of  this  addition,  the  pure  Corinthian  capitals 
and  the  columns  of  the  balustrade  are  painfully  at 
discord  with  the  main  work* 

But  it  is  with  Niccola's  pulpit  that  we  have  to 
deal.  Among  its  bas-reliefs  we  will  study  first  the 
*  Nativity.'  In  the  handling  of  this  subject  there  is 
but  little  difference  between  the  pulpit  at  Pisa  and 
than  at  Siena,  but  the  changes  are  happy.  In  the 
place  of  the  woman  pointing  out  the  Madonna  to 
the  angel,  we  have  here  a  more  homely  and  idyllic 
motive — ^an  aged  woman  welcoming  another  elderly 
woman,  whose  hand  she  presses  fondly  between  her 
own ;  possibly  the  prophetess,  Anna  and  Elizabeth, 
mother  of  John  the  Baptist.  The  Madonna,  who 
again,  as  before,  occupies  the  central  place,  reclining 
on  a  couch,  is  no  longer  the  stately  Juno-like  Roman 
matron ;  here  she  is  seen  in  the  languor  and  feeble- 
ness of  her  young  motherhood ;  her  eyes  are  closed, 

m 


flfccola  pteano.  gj^e  is  unconscious  of  the  scene  around  her;  she  is 
absorbed  in  contemplation  of  the  new  era  which 
opens  with  the  birth  of  her  Babe;  but  she  is  still 
c4ncitU  Dommif  the  handmaid  of  the  Lord.  St. 
Joseph  occupies  the  same  position  as  in  the  correspond- 
ing bas-relief  of  the  pulpit  at  Pisa ;  here  the  visage 
of  St.  Joseph  is  in  better  proportion,  but  the  expres- 
sion of  the  face  is  simply  fatuous.  The  figures  of 
the  two  women  washing  the  Babe  are  commonplace, 
but  even  so  they  are  an  improvement  on  those  of 
their  predecessors  in  the  corresponding  bas-relief  at 
Pisa. 

Instead  of  the  shepherd  and  dog  as  in  the  Pisa 
'Nativity',  we  have  here  two  shepherds  in  an  atti- 
tude of  wonder  and  admiration,  gazing  upward 
toward  the  angelic  host,  seen  above  a  bank  of 
clouds  in  the  background.  Three  oxen,  from  their 
stalls  behind  the  Virgin's  couch  project  their  heads 
into  the  sacred  scene. 

The  years  that  have  intervened  between  the 
pulpit  at  Pisa  and  that  at  Siena  have  produced  a  great 
change,  and  that  a  change  for  the  better.  In  the 
former  work  Pisano  was  like  an  apprentice,  in  much 
following  reverently  the  teachings  of  the  masters  of 
Roman  art  in  its  decadence;  too  respectful  of  tradi- 
tional authority  to  give  free  reign  to  his  own  origi- 
nality, and,  moreover,  sorely  hampered  by  his  not 
having  thoroughly  mastered  the  technique  of  his  art. 

J92 


LI 

ptftent  to  interpret 

in  the  pulpit  at  Sicrm*  iHr 
ol  decadent  Roman   tr<,  sktt^.. 
taking  the  same  suHcci  a»  ha 
instead  of  a  bastard  cIjMSi^ 
whkht  in  detail  at  leasts  is  Kiy> 
Plough  not  conformed  to  ib^ 

In  the  'Adorazoinc  iei  M.^..; 
Siena,  the  visage  of  the  Mifkmw 
and  vulgar^  hut  her  figure  lUfii  m^ 
and  the  modeling  of  the  Bar^< 
exc^  the  head  and  face  (v(;}i(ir)lBfr''  dCi:? 
and  the  abnonnall)rl^  e^.  ^^  ^^  ^utir^tm  lo 
thco'  ministers  and  llT!enaants»  i\  *.. 
tf)C|r  strz  dignified  figures  of  men.  b/ui 
tkfeifiously  small  horses  and  ill~shapen  camel^ 
honet  have  the  meht  of  being  at  least  symmukm^^ 
ani  are  carved  with  a   just  apprehcmiOR  of  iktm 
natural  form;  but  not  io  the  camds.     Nt:^&  h^ 
probably  never  seen  a  camel,  and  so  e 
anlmai  out  of  his  Imai^kiation. 

Of  the  statues  ilandlng  ftt  the  n^pii  asm  us  ^ 
tJm  compartment,  tbc  Madoona  widi  llie  Biii^tiin 
Id  Imt  afott  k  adminkkf  her  long,  ficyviiif  fofct 

193 


tt  fHciiA 


xrbe  '"Hatirtts" 


of  pifiano's  Pulptt  in  JDuomo  at  Skna 


But  in  his  later  work  he  soars  on  the  wings  of  genius,  Pi^ano'e  pulpit 
and,  disdaining  imitation,  turns  for  inspiration  to  the  ^      ^"** 
fountain-head — to  Nature — ^which  he  now  feels  com- 
petent to  interpret. 

In  the  pulpit  at  Siena  there  is  but  little  imitation 
of  decadent  Roman  art,  and  the  result  is  that, 
taking  the  same  subject  as  before,  Pisano  produces, 
instead  of  a  bastard  classic  scene,  a  domestic  picture 
which,  in  detail  at  least,  is  true  to  nature  and  to  life, 
though  not  conformed  to  the  canons  of  art  in  the 
ensemble. 

In  the  ^Adorazoine  dei  Magi'  of  the  pulpit  at 
Siena,  the  visage  of  the  Madonna  is  indeed  coarse 
and  vulgar,  but  her  figure  and  attitude  are  graceful ; 
and  the  modeling  of  the  Bambino  is  very  good, 
except  the  head  and  face  (which  are  not  infantile) 
and  the  abnormally  large  ear*  Of  the  kings  and 
their  ministers  and  attendants,  it  is  to  be  said  that 
they  are  dignified  figures  of  men,  but  that  they  ride 
ridiculously  small  horses  and  ill-shapen  camels.  The 
horses  have  the  merit  of  being  at  least  symmetrical, 
and  are  carved  with  a  just  apprehension  of  their 
natural  form;  but  not  so  the  camels.  Niccola  had 
probably  never  seen  a  camel,  and  so  evolved  that 
animal  out  of  his  imagination. 

Of  the  statues  standing  at  the  right  and  left  of 
this  compartment,  the  Madonna  with  the  Bambino 
in  her  arms  is  admirable,  her  long,  flowing  robe 

\9l 


Htccola  pifiano,  being  rendered  with  fine  effect.  The  figure  of  Moses 
bearing  the  tables  of  the  law,  which  bounds  this 
compartment  on  the  left,  is  far  less  successful ;  the 
expression  of  the  great  lawgiver's  countenance  lacks 
force  and  dignity. 

The  'Giudizio  Finale'  is  worthy  of  admiration. 
The  Blessed  and  the  Damned  are  shown  separated 
by  the  sentence  of  Christ  the  Judge,  the  blessed  on 
his  right,  the  damned  on  his  left  hand.  Christ's 
tribunal,  with  figures — eagle,  ox,  lion,  and  man — at 
its  four  corners,  is  erected  near  the  middle  of  the 
background,  and  Christ  the  Judge  separates  the  good 
from  the  wicked,  the  good  being  arrayed  in  orderly 
lines  before  him  and  to  his  right,  the  wicked  on  his 
left,  without  order  and  convulsed  with  terror  and 
despair.  The  ratio  of  the  good  and  the  wicked  in 
this  bas-relief  is  not  without  significance ;  the  saved 
are  to  the  lost  in  the  proportion  of  three  to  two.  This 
subject,  as  well  as  the  'Adorazione  dei  Magi',  is  also 
treated  in  the  pulpit  at  Pisa. 

While  engaged  on  the  Siena  pulpit,  Pisano 
undertook,  at  the  request  of  the  people  of  Bologna, 
to  carve  for  them  a  shrine  to  hold  the  relics  of  San 
Domenico.  What  part  he  had  in  the  execution  of 
this  work  cannot  be  definitely  ascertained ;  he  may 
have  simply  sketched  the  dominant  motif t  and  left 
the  development  of  it  and  the  execution  of  the  design 
to  one  of  his  pupils,  the  Dominican  friar  Guglielmo; 


\n 


certain  it  is  that  Fra  Guglielmo  had  some  share  in  Ptsano's  Sbrfnc  ot 
the  work ;  but  it  is  highly  probable  that  the  more 
important  parts  were  carved  by  Pisano  and  the  rest 
by  his  pupil. 

The  larger  sides  of  this  rectangular  shrine  are 
decorated  with  two  bas-reliefs  each,  the  shorter  with 
one  only*  In  the  left-hand  compartment  of  the  front 
or  facade,  a  miracle  is  represented — San  Domenico 
recaDing  to  life  a  youth  that  was  killed  by  a  fall  from 
his  horse.  In  the  right-hand  compartment  the  scene 
is  the  trial  by  fire  of  Manichean  and  orthodox  books; 
the  fire  is  consuming  the  books  of  the  heretics,  while 
those  offered  by  San  Domenico  for  the  ordeal  remain 
unscathed  by  the  flames.  The  first  of  these  bas- 
reliefs  is  the  more  beautiful  because  of  the  spirited 
rendering  of  the  sympathetic  emotions  of  the  people 
who  crowd  around  the  fallen  youth.  This  note  of 
tenderness  has  given  cause  for  doubt  as  to  whether 
the  work  is  really  Pisano's,  his  chief  characteristic 
being,  as  we  have  seen,  severe,  stately  grandeur. 
But  it  must  be  remembered  that  this  stateliness 
belongs  most  markedly  to  the  master's  early  manner, 
and  that  by  the  time  of  the  carving  of  the  shrine  he 
had  to  a  great  extent  emancipated  himself  from  the 
dominion  of  decadent  Roman  classicism. 

The  beauty  of  the  composition  is  in  itself  a 
strong  argument  in  favor  of  Pisano  as  its  author, 
and  the  note  of  tenderness  which  pervades  the  work 

195 


Ulccoia  fMsano.  may  well  be  taken  as  an  index  of  the  artist's 
evolution. 

The  Fountain  of  Perugia,  a  masterpiece  of 
architecture  as  well  as  of  sculpture,  was  executed  by 
Pisano,  then  nearly  seventy  years  of  age,  with  the 
assistance  of  his  son  Giovanni  and  the  same  Arnolfo 
di  Cambio,'  who  had  been  his  collaborator  at  Siena. 
It  is  most  probable  that  the  plan  of  the  fountain  was 
drawn  by  the  aged  artist,  who  had  already  at  Pisa 
and  Siena  given  such  splendid  proofs  of  his  genius 
and  practical  skill  in  architecture,  especially  for  small 
monuments  intended  to  be  adorned  with  sculpture. 

Four  steps  lead  up  to  a  great  polygonal  crater 
or  basin;  at  the  angles  are  groups  of  spiral  columns. 
Each  side  is  divided  by  a  small  pillar  in  the  middle  into 
two  compartments.  Within  this  basin  is  a  series  of 
columns  rising  from  its  bottom;  these  sustain  another 
basin,  also  polygonal,  but  of  smaller  dimensions. 
The  angles  of  this  basin  are  adorned  with  statuettes. 
From  the  bottom  of  this  second  basin  rises  a  column 
supporting  a  bronze  basin,  in  the  middle  of  which 
are  three  nymphs  standing  shoulder  to  shoulder  and 
partly  back  to  back,  and  supporting  three  griffins; 
the  griffins  uphold  a  tube  from  which  issues  a  jet  of 
waten  All  the  bronze  work  of  this  monument  was 
cast  in  J  277  by  the  maestro  Rosso,  a  brassfounder 
of  Perugia. 

I.  It  is  to  the  glory  of  Arnolfo  that  he  was  the  architect  who  traced  the  first  plan  and 
directed  the  construction  of  the  beautiful  church  of  Santa  Maria  dei  Fiori  in  Florence. 


The  panels  or  compartments  of  the  two  greater  l^eagonfotDlgpro* 
basins  are  adorned  with  bas-reliefs,  and  most  of  the 
scenes  represented  are  secular.  Only  the  statuettes 
at  the  angles  of  the  second  great  basin  are  reputed  to 
be  the  work  of  Niccola.  These  figures,  praise- 
worthy though  they  are,  are  plainly  too  short  and 
too  stout,  and  show  an  incorrectness  of  proportion 
much  more  marked  than  do  the  other  figures.  This 
incorrectness  of  proportion  is  doubtless  due  to  the 
fact  that  Niccola,  notwithstanding  his  technical  skill, 
was  still  in  ignorance  of  many  useful  expedients  that 
were  not  unknown  to  more  ancient  artists,  and 
which  by  the  moderns  are  rightly  considered  indis- 
pensable. One  of  these  is  that  of  modeling  the  figure 
in  clay,  then  having  it  cast  in  plaster,  and  from  the 
cast  copying  the  figure  in  marble.  By  employing 
this  method  and  bearing  in  mind  the  proportions 
prescribed  by  the  block  of  marble  and  the  place 
which  the  statue  is  to  occupy,  the  artist  has  every 
opportunity  to  reduce  or  to  enlarge  his  model  before 
commencing  on  the  marble* 

Niccola  and  his  contemporaries  labored  at  a 
great  disadvantage  in  having  to  begin  work  directly 
on  the  block  of  stone  or  marble  that  came  to  their 
hand.  With  hammer  and  chisel  the  head  was  first 
roughly  shaped;  if  its  vertical  dimension  was  too  great, 
the  sculptor  had  perforce  to  shorten  some  other  part 
of  the  figure;  hence  oftentimes  incorrect  proportion* 

J97 


•ftfccou  pteano.  But  if  under  Niccola  Pisano  the  art  of  sculpture 

did  not  reach  its  apogee,  some  important  steps  were 
made  in  the  right  direction.  Stiff  stateliness  yielded 
little  by  little  to  the  gracefulness  of  human  faces  and 
figures  copied  from  life.  The  progress  made  by 
Pisano  through  study  of  living  models  may  be  traced 
in  the  statuettes  which  adorn  the  fountain  of 
Perugia;  more  marked  still  does  it  appear  when  we 
compare  the  figures  of  the  fountain  with  those  of  the 
Pisan  pulpit. 

The  fountain  of  Perugia  was  certainly  Pisano's 
last  work;  there  is  even  doubt  whether  it  was  yet 
finished  in  1278  when  he  died. 

Pisano's  name  has  an  eminent  place  in  the 
history  of  art.    He  it  was  that  opened  men's  eyes  to 
the  degeneracy  of  Byzantine  art,  and  that  directed 
them  to  the  true  school,  the  antique,  and  to  the 
only  fount  of  inspiration.  Nature.  As  Gm- 
abue  and  his  pupil  Giotto  were  the  her- 
alds of  the  renaissance  in  paint- 
ing, so  was  Niccola  Pisano 
the  father  of    modern 
Italian   sculpture. 


w 


m 


AVIGNON 


CHILD  of  the  Midi 
son  of  Provence,  surely 
thy  dwelling  place  is  the 
Promised  Land.  How  ex- 
quisite is  this  view,  the 
Rhone  and  its  banks 
below.  Here  is  a  boat 
ferrying  itself  across,  for 
the  solitary  occupant  is 
asleep  in  the  stern.  The 
great  rudder  is  turned  so  as  to  keep  the  craft  aslant 
>the  stream;  through  its  prow  passes  a  wire 
stretched  to  either  bank,  and  the  river's  current 
striking  the  boat's  side  pushes  it  towards  Villeneuve 
on  the  opposite  bank. 

Surely  we  have  been  asleep  and  awakened  in  the 
fourteenth  century !  From  that  solitary  tower  watch 
is  keeping  upon  the  troops  of  warrior  popes  in 
their  little  Avignon  kingdom.  From  that  castle  and 
its  citadel  we  shall  see  issuing  gaily  caparisoned 
steeds  and  floating  banners  and  beautiful  ladies.  For 
this  is  Provence,  and  only  a  dozen  miles  away  at 
Tarascon,  King  Rene  of  Anjou  holds  sway.  Per- 
chance, that  patron  of  minstrelsy,  whose  lofty  old 
castle  is  barely  discerned  in  the  distant  purple  haze 
and  shimmering  sunlight,  will  to^iay  offer  prize  to 
him  who  shall  most  sweetly  sing  his  mistress'  beauty 
and  his  heart's  passion. 

Wc  turn  our  backs  on  the  Cathedral  of  Notre 
Dame  des  Doms  and  its  monument  of  Pope  John  XII. 
In  other  towns  are  to  be  found  old  churches  and 


monuments,  but  where  else  the  Durance,  winding  a 
silver  thread,  and  embroidering  so  vast  expanse  of 
spring-time  green  ?  Beyond  lie  the  Alps,  mantled  in 
snow,  and  in  the  foreground  these  old  towers  and  their 
citadel  asleep  in  purple  mist  and  lap  of  legends  old* 

But  having  come  here  as  a  pilgrim  of  Love,  and 
thinking  on  Francesco  Petrarca  and  his  Laura  de 
Noves,  a  gentle  sadness  casts  its  shadow  over  the 
scene's  joy.  It  is  only  a  little  way  to  the  Rue  Joseph 
Vernet.  In  the  rear  of  the  garden  at  the  back  of  the 
Musee  Calvet  is  the  monument  erected  many  years 
ago  by  Mr.  Charles  Kensall  to  the  memory  of 
Petrarch's  Laura.  Her  tomb  was  formerly  in  the 
Eglise  des  Cordeliers,  but  was  destroyed  during  the 
Revolution.  Though  this  is  Southern  France  and 
Northern  Italy  the  home  of  love,  and  its  people  the 
children  of  the  old  Minstrelsingers  and  Troubadours, 
and  the  langue  ProvenceaU  the  language  of  love; 
yet  do  these  very  children  destroy  the  tomb  of 
Laura,  and  neglect  the  monument  erected  by  a 
stranger  from  the  cold  and  sunless  north-land.  One 
might  think  they  knew  nothing  of  true  love,  for  on 
the  train  when  leaving  Avignon,  I  remarked  to  an 
Italian,  that  it  was  the  home  of  Laura,  he  replied — 
*  Oh,  yes,  Laura,  the  mistress  of  Petrarch  I  But  he 
was  careless  to  let  her  have  so  many  children. — '  I 
told  him  that  Petrarch  was  twenty-two  years  of  age, 
and  she  but  in  her  nineteenth  year,  when  in  J  326, 

204 


in  the  Church  of  the  Nunnery  of  Saint  Claire  the  ^^^  Hviflnon 
passionate  and  poetic  young  Italian  first  beheld  her  petrarcb. 
beauty;  and  though  he  never  touched  her  lips,  prob- 
ably not  even  her  hands,  and  though! during  his  eight 
years  in  Avignon  he  never  received  the  slightest  token 
of  her  regard,  yet  whether  there  or  when  writing 
these  touching  sonnets  at  the  Fountain  of  Vausluse, 
or  in  his  weary  years  of  wandering  up  and  down 
the  world,  always  his  heart  was  dedicate  to  her. 
The  poor  man  smiled  in  pity  on  my  northern  cre- 
dulity, and  lifting  his  hands  and  shrugging  his 
shoulders,  replied,  *  A  pretty  story,  but  impossible* 
Petrarch  was  not  a  saint,  but  a  man  and  an  Italian. 
I  tell  you  she  was  his  mistress.'  We  forget  this  un- 
worthy worlding  at  the  remembrance  of  poor  Laura 
dying  at  the  age  of  forty,  tired  of  bearing  children, 
and  of  an  unhappy  marriage,  and  glad  of  the  tomb, 
for  it  brought  rest.  And  poor  Petrarch,  to  live]  [on 
after  her  for  nearly  thirty  years,  faithful  to  her  mem- 
ory, and  enriching  the  world  by  those  touching  lines 
to  his  heart's  idol.  That  mistress  from  whom 
he  had  not  even  known  one  kiss.  Ah  me !  not  for 
these  poor  lovers  was  it  given  to  mingle  their  lives. 

In  one  attempered  stream,  or  side  by  side. 

So  near  that  scarce  a  foot-pace  may  divide. 

Their  separate  paths,  and  this  maybe  is  best ; 

Or  maybe  in  each  other  lost. 

In  calm  or  tempest  tost, 

One  broad  full  river,  they  roll  on  to  the  sea. 

205 


Zbe  avfgnon  ot  And  yet  why  poor  Petrarch  ?  It  was  his  loving: 

poet'^and  pope.  <  «         ,,,.  1.1  *«         . 

heart  and  poetic  imagination  which  created  the  mis- 
tress to  whom  he  sang.  Laura  was  simply  a  per- 
sonage, a  mortal  whom  he  clothed  with  all  the  bright 
imagery  of  his  fancy  and  the  tender  poetry  of  his 
heart.  The  creature  whom  he  loved  was  of  his 
own  creation,  immortal,  spiritual,  and  therefore  free 
from  human  failings.  It  was  of  her  he  wrote,  the 
Laura  of  the  Kingdom  of  Love.  Had  he  in  fact 
embraced  the  Laura  of  Avignon,  the  wife  of  Hughes 
de  Sade,  the  mother  of  many  children,  the  house- 
(hold  drudge,  the  Laura  of  flesh  and  blood,  of  fail- 
ings and  failures,  perchance  vain  and  without  poetry, 
spirituality  or  imagination,  there  would  have  been 
a  rift  within  the  lute,  the  music  would  have  turned 
to  discord,  and  we  should  have  missed  those  sonnets 
j  which  touch  the  heart,  and  sing  themselves  within 
[the  soul  of  every  true  lover. 

But  there  is  an  Avignon  other  than  the  Avignon 
of  Petrarch,  though  the  towers  are  the  same,  and 
the  town  is  the  same,  and  is  encircled  with  the  same 
walls,  and  the  same  Rhone  flows  peacefully  at  the 
foot  of  the  Rocker  des  Domes,  That  lofty,  gloomy  pile, 
with  huge  towers  and  walls  thirteen  feet  thick  and  a 
hundred  feet  high,  is  the  Papal  Palace,  erected  by 
Clement  V»  and  his  successors.  This  is  the  Avignon 
of  the  Popes.  In  that  Toar  de  Trouillas  Rienzi  was 
imprisoned  at  the  same  time  that  Petrarch  was 

206 


dining  an  honored  guest  in  the  palace  hall.  That  great  *  laA"l«  J>» 
square  tower  rising  above  all  the  rest — Le  GlacierCt 
was  the  prison  of  the  Holy  Inquisition. 

A  thousand  years  have  passed  since  those  cruel 
tortures,  and,  looking  back  through  the  eyes  of 
Alfonse  Daudet,  we  forget  the  scenes  of  sadness  in 
the  brighter  light  on  these  old  towers.  It  is  impos- 
sible long  to  have  gloomy  thoughts  and  for  long  to 
dwell  on  sad  pictures  when  all  the  world  is  bathed 
in  this  warm  air  and  golden  sunshine,  and  we  know 
qui  n*a  pas  vu  Alngnon  du  temps  des  ^apes,  n'a 
rien  7m*  We  enter  into  its  gaiety,  its  life,  its  anima- 
tion* The  succession  of  feteSf  the  processions  from 
morning  till  night,  the  flowers  and  draperies  from 
windows  and  balconies  on  the  arrival  of  the  cardi- 
nals and  the  gorgeously  attired  soldiers  of  the  Pope. 

He  who  has  lived  in  Provence  knows  the  gaiety, 
and  the  chatter,  and  the  gossip,  and  the  roar,  and  the 
bells,  and  the  tambourines,  and  the  striking  of  the 
clocks,  and  the  shoutings  to  the  mules  and  to  the 
donkeys*  And  *La  Mule  du  Pape: '  can  we  not  see 
the  good  Boniface?  Oh,  the  tears  that  fell  in  Avig- 
non when  he  died !  Behold  the  blessed  father  upon 
his  mule,  going  out  to  his  little  vineyard,  planted  by 
himself  among  the  myrtles  of  Chateau  Neuf,  How 
piously  he  passes  the  hours  in  little  drinks,  sip 
and  sip,  of  the  old  wine,  until  the  bottles  are  empty, 
and  the  dying  of  the  day  reminds  him  of  his  return 

207 


aviflnon,  to  Avignon.  Is  it  a  wonder  that  after  his  love  for 
the  wine  of  Chateau  Neuf  he  should  love  beyond  all 
the  world  his  black  mule^  sure  of  foot  and  of  glisten- 
ing coat,  which  so  safely  carried  the  worthy  saint.  On 
the  animal's  back  securely  he  sits  and  sleeps  the 
gentle  sleep  of  a  good  man  after  his  ardent  labors  of 
the  day  with  his  bottles. 

To-day  one   would   not  find  in  Avignon  the 
descendants  of  the  miserable  Tistet  Vedinif  for  he 
was  kicked  into  a  thousand  pieces  by  the  Coups 
de  sabot  of  the  much  injured  beast.    But  of  the 
mule's'descendants  there  are  many,  and  of 
equally  long  memories,  in  this  quaint 
old  town  of  sunshine  and  shadow, 
of   joy  and  sadness,  Avig- 
non— court  of  the  popes 
and  home  of  Laura  I 


208 


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